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ANDALUSIA 

SKETCHES AND IMPRESSIONS 
By W. somerset MAUGHAM 

Author of "The Moon and Sixpence, " etc. 




NEW YORK ^^^1^^^ MCMXX 

ALFRED-A-KNOPF 



PUBLISHED, 1920, BY 
ALFRED A. KNTOPF, Inc. 






Wlrw- 



JU' 



FEINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMEEICA 



ro 

Violet Hunt 



CONTENTS 



I. The Spirit of Andalusia, ii 

II. The Churches of Ronda, 17 

III. Ronda, 21 

IV. The Swineherd, 25 

V. Medinat Az-Zahra, 31 

VI. The Mosque, 35 

VII. The Court of Oranges, 40 

VIII. Cordova, 45 

IX. The Bridge of Calahorra, 48 

X. PuERTA del Puente, 53 

XI. Seville, 58 

XII. The Alcazar, 65 

XIII. Calle de las Sierpes, 72 

XIV. Characteristics, 77 
XV. Don Juan Tenorio, 84 

XVI. Women of Andalusia, 89 

XVII. The Dance, 95 

XVIII. A Feast Day.. 102 

XIX. The Giralda, 108 

XX. The Cathedral of Seville, 112 

XXI. The Hospital of Charity, 116 

XXII. Gaol, 122 



Contents 

XXIII. Before the Bull-Fight, 131 

XXIV. Corrida de Toros — I, 135 
XXV. Corrida de Toros — II, 141 

XXVI. On Horseback, 146 

XXVII. By the Road— I, 153 

XXVIII. By the Road— II, i6o 

XXIX. EcijA, 165 

XXX. Wind and Storm, 171 

XXXI. Two Villages, 178 

XXXII. Granada, 183 

XXXIII. The Alhambra, 191 

XXXIV. Boabdil the Unlucky, 198 
XXXV. Los PoBRES, 203 

XXXVI. The Song, 208 

XXXVII. Jerez, 214 

XXXVIII. Cadiz, 220 

XXXIX. El Genero Chico, 226 

XL. Adios, 232 



ANDALUSIA 



/; The Spirit of Andalusia 

After one has left a country it is interesting to 
collect together the emotions it has given in an effort 
to define its particular character. And with Anda- 
lusia the attempt is especially fascinating, for it is a 
land of contrasts in which work upon one another, 
diversely, a hundred influences. 

In London now, as I write, the rain of an English 
April pours down; the sky is leaden and cold, the 
houses in front of me are almost terrible in their 
monotonous greyness, the slate roofs are shining 
with the wet. Now and again people pass : a woman 
of the slums in a dirty apron, her head wrapped in a 
grey shawl ; two girls in waterproofs, trim and alert 
notwithstanding the inclement weather, one with a 
music-case under her arm. A train arrives at an 
underground station and a score of city folk cross 
my window, sheltered behind their umbrellas; and 
two or three groups of workmen, silently smoking 
short pipes: they walk with a dull, heavy tramp, 
with the gait of strong men who are very tired. 
Still the rain pours down unceasing. 

And I think of Andalusia. My mind is suddenly 
ablaze with its sunshine, with its opulent colour, 
luminous and soft; I think of the cities, the white 



Andalusia 

cities bathed in light; of the desolate wastes of sand, 
with their dwarf palms, the broom in flower. And 
in my ears I hear the twang of the guitar, the 
rhythmical clapping of hands and the castanets, as 
two girls dance in the sunlight on a holiday. I see 
the crowds going to the bull-fight, intensely living, 
many-coloured. And a thousand scents are wafted 
across my memory ; I remember the cloudless nights, 
the silence of sleeping towns, and the silence of 
desert country; I remember old whitewashed tav- 
erns, and the perfumed wines of Malaga, of Jerez, 
and of Manzanilla. (The rain pours down with- 
out stay in oblique long lines, the light is quickly 
failing, the street is sad and very cheerless.) I feel 
on my shoulder the touch of dainty hands, of little 
hands with tapering fingers, and on my mouth the 
kisses of red lips, and I hear a joyous laugh. I 
remember the voice that bade me farewell that last 
night in Seville, and the gleam of dark eyes and 
dark hair at the foot of the stairs, as I looked back 
from the gate. '' Feliz viage, mi Inglesito.*' 

It was not love I felt for you, Rosarito; I wish 
it had been ; but now far away, in the rain, I fancy, 
(oh no, not that I am at last in love,) but perhaps 
that I am just faintly enamoured — of your recol- 
lection. 

But these are all Spanish things, and more than 
half one's impressions of Andalusia are connected 

[12] 



The Spirit of Andalusia 

with the Moors, Not only did they make exquisite 
buildings, they moulded a whole people to their hke- 
ness; the Andalusian character is rich with Oriental 
traits; the houses, the mode of hfe, the very atmo- 
sphere is Moorish rather than Christian; to this day 
the peasant at his plough sings the same quavering 
lament that sang the Moor. And it is to the in- 
vaders that Spain as a country owes the magnificence 
of its golden age: it was contact with them that 
gave the Spaniards cultivation; it was the conflict of 
seven hundred years that made them the best 
soldiers in Europe, and masters of half the world. 
The long struggle caused that tension of spirit which 
led to the adventurous descents upon America, 
teaching recklessness of life and the fascination of 
unknown dangers; and it caused their downfall as 
it had caused their rise, for the reKgious element 
in the racial war occasioned the most cruel bigotry 
that has existed on the face of the earth, so that 
the victors suffered as terribly as the vanquished. 
The Moors, hounded out of Spain, took with them 
their arts and handicrafts — as the Huguenots from 
France after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes 
— and though for a while the light of Spain burnt 
very brightly, the light borrowed from Moordom, 
the oil jar was broken and the lamp flickered out. 

In most countries there is one person in particular 
who seems to typify the race, whose works are the 

[13] 



Andalusia 

synthesis, as it were, of an entire people. Bernini 
expressed in this manner a whole age of Italian 
society; and even now his spirit haunts you as you 
read the gorgeous sins of Roman noblemen in the 
pages of Gabriele d'Annunzio. And Murillo, 
though the expert not unjustly from their special 
point of view, see in him but a mediocre artist, in the 
same way is the very quintessence of Southern Spain. 
Wielders of the brush, occupied chiefly with tech- 
nique, are apt to discern little in an old master, save 
the craftsman; yet art is no more than a link in the 
chain of life and cannot be sharply sundered from the 
civilisation of which it is an outcome : even Velas- 
quez, sans peer, sans parallel, throws a curious light 
on the world of his day, and the cleverest painters 
would find their knowledge and understanding of 
that great genius the fuller if they were acquainted 
with the plays of Lope de la Vega and the satires 
of Quevedo. Notwithstanding Murillo's obvious 
faults, as you walk through the museum at Seville 
all Andalusia appears before you. Nothing could 
be more characteristic than the reUgious feeling of 
the many pictures, than the exuberant fancy and 
utter lack of idealisation : in the contrast between a 
Holy Family by Murillo and one by Perugino is all 
the difference between Spain and Italy. Murillo's 
Virgin is a peasant girl such as you may see in any 
village round Seville on a feast-day; her emotions 
are purely human, and in her face is nothing more 

[14] 



The Spirit of Andalusia 

than the intense love of a mother for her child. 
But the Italian shows a creature not of earth, an 
angelic maid with almond eyes, oval of face: she 
has a strange air of unrealness, for her body is not 
of human flesh and blood, and she is linked with 
mankind only by an infinite sadness; she seems to 
see already the Dolorous Way, and her eyes are 
heavy with countless unwept tears. 

One picture especially, that which the painter 
himself thought his best work. Saint Thomas of 
Filianueva distributing Jims, to my mind offers the 
entire impression of that full life of Andalusia. In 
the splendour of mitre and of pastoral staff, in the 
sober magnificence of architecture, is all the opulence 
of the Catholic Church; in the worn, patient, ascetic 
face of the saint is the mystic, fervid piety which 
distinguished so wonderfully the warlike and bar- 
barous Spain of the sixteenth century; and lastly, 
in the beggars covered with sores, pale, starving, 
with their malodorous rags, you feel strangely the 
swarming poverty of the vast population, down- 
trodden and vivacious, which you read of in the 
picaresque novels of a later day. And these same 
characteristics, the deep religious feeling, the splen- 
dour, the poverty, the extreme sense of vigorous life, 
the discerning may find even now among the Anda- 
lusians for all the modern modes with which, as with 
coats of London and bonnets of Paris, they have 
sought to liken themselves to the rest of Europe. 

[15] 



Andalusia 

And the colours of Murillo's palette are the typi- 
cal colours of Andalusia, rich, hot, and deep — again 
contrasting with the enamelled brilliance of the 
Umbrians. He seems to have charged his brush 
with the very light and atmosphere of Seville; the 
country bathed in the splendour of an August sun 
has just the luminous character, the haziness of 
contour, which characterise the paintings of Mur- 
illo's latest manner. They say he adopted the style 
termed vaporoso for greater rapidity of execution, 
but he cannot have lived all his life in that radiant 
atmosphere without being impregnated with it. In 
Andalusia there is a quality of the air which gives 
all things a hmpid, brilliant softness, the sea of gold 
poured out upon them voluptuously rounds away 
their outlines; and one can well imagine that the 
master deemed it the culmination of his art when 
he painted with the same aureate effulgence, when 
he put on canvas those gorgeous tints and that ex- 
quisite mellowness. 



[i6] 



//; The Churches of Ronda 

That necessity of realism which is, perhaps, the 
most conspicuous of Spanish traits, shows itself no- 
where more obviously than in matters religious. 
It is a very listless emotion that is satisfied with the 
shadow of the ideal; and the belief of the Andaluz 
is an intensely living thing, into which he throws 
himself with a vehemence that requires the nude 
and brutal fact. His saints must be fashioned after 
his own likeness, for he has small power of make- 
believe, and needs all manner of substantial acces- 
sories to establish his faith. But then he treats the 
images as living persons, and it never occurs to him 
to pray to the Saint in Paradise while kneeling be- 
fore his presentment upon earth. The Spanish girl 
at the altar of Mater Dolorosa prays to a veritable 
woman, able to speak if so she wills, able to descend 
from the golden shrine to comfort the devout wor- 
shipper. To her nothing is more real than these 
Madonnas, with their dark eyes and their abundant 
hair : Maria del Pilar, who is Mary of the Fountain, 
Maria del Rosario, who is Mary of the Rosary, 
Maria de los Dolores, Maria del Carmen, Maria 
de los Angeles. And they wear magnificent gowns 

[17] 



Andalusia 
of brocade and of cloth-of-gold, mantles heavily 
embroidered, shoes, rings on their fingers, rich jewels 
about their necks. 

In a little town like Ronda, so entirely apart from 
the world, poverty-stricken, this desire for realism 
makes a curiously strong impression. The churches, 
coated with whitewash, are squalid, cold and de- 
pressing; and at first sight the row of images looks 
nothing more than a somewhat vulgar exhibition of 
wax-work. But presently, as I lingered, the very 
poverty of it all touched me; and forgetting the 
grotesqueness, I perceived that some of the saints in 
their elaborate dresses were quite charming and 
graceful. In the church of Santa Maria la Mayor 
was a Saint Catherine in rich habiliments of red 
brocade, with a white mantilla arranged as only a 
Spanish woman could arrange it. She might have 
been a young gentlewoman of fifty years back when 
costume was gayer than nowadays, arrayed for a 
fashionable wedding or for a bull-fight. And in 
another church I saw a youthful Saint in priest's 
robes, a cassock of black silk and a short surphce 
of exquisite lace ; he held a bunch of lilies in his hand 
and looked very gently, his lips almost trembling to 
a smile. One can imagine that not to them would 
come the suppliant with a heavy despair, they would 
be merely pained at their helplessness before the 
tears of the grief that kills and the woe of mothers 
sorrowing for their sons. But when the black-eyed 
[i8] 



The Churches of Ronda 

maiden knelt before the priest, courtly and debonair, 
begging him to send a husband quickly, his lips 
surely would control themselves no longer, and his 
smile would set the damsel's cheek a-blushing. And 
if a youth knelt before Saint Catherine in her dainty 
mantilla, and vowed his heart was breaking because 
his love gave him stony glances, she would look very 
graciously upon him, so that his courage was re- 
stored, and he promised her a silver heart as lovers 
in Greece made votive offerings to Aphrodite. 

At the Church of the Espirito Santo, in a little 
chapel behind one of the transept altars, I saw, 
through a hugh rococo frame of gilded wood, a 
Maria de los Dolores that was almost terrifying in 
poignant realism. She wore a robe of black damask, 
which stood as if it were cast of bronze in heavy, 
austere folds, a velvet cloak decorated with the old 
lace known as rose point d'Espagne; and on her head 
a massive imperial diadem, and a golden aureole. 
Seven candles burned before her; and at vespers, 
when the church was nearly dark, they threw a cold, 
sharp light upon her countenance. Her eyes were 
in deep shadow, strangely mysterious, and they made 
the face, so small beneath the pompous crown, hor- 
ribly life-like: you could not see the tears, but you 
felt they were eyes which would never cease from 
weeping. 

I suppose it was all tawdry and vulgar and com- 
mon, but a woman knelt in front of the Mother of 

[19] 



Andalusia 
Sorrows, praying, a poor woman in a ragged shawl; 
I heard a sob, and saw that she was weeping; she 
sought to restrain herself and in the effort a tremor 
passed through her body, and she drew the shawl 
more closely round her. 

I walked away, and came presently to the most 
cruel of all these images. It was a Pieta. The 
Mother held on her knees the dead Son, looking in 
His face, and it was a ghastly contrast between her 
royal array and His naked body. She, too, wore the 
imperial crown, with its golden aureole, and her 
cloak was of damask embroidered with heavy gold. 
Her hair fell in curling abundance about her breast, 
and the sacristan told me it was the hair of a lady 
who had lost her husband and her only son. But 
the dead Christ was terrible. His face half hidden by 
the long straight hair, long as a woman's, and His 
body thin and all discoloured: from the wounds 
thick blood poured out, and their edges were swollen 
and red; the broken knees, the feet and hands, were 
purple and green with the beginning of putrefaction. 



[20] 



///; Ronda 

Ronda is set deep among the mountains between 
Algeciras and Seville ; they hem it in on all sides, and 
it straggles up and down little hills, timidly, as 
though its presence were an affront to the wild rocks 
around it. The houses are huddled against the 
churches, which look like portly hens squatting with 
ruffled feathers, while their chicks, for warmth, press 
up against them. It is very co-Id in Ronda, I saw 
it first quite early: over the town hung a grey mist 
shining in the sunlight, and the mountains, opalescent 
in the morning glow, were so luminous that they 
seemed hardly soHd; they looked as if one could 
walk through them. The people, covering their 
mouths in dread of a pulmonia, hastened by, closely 
muffled in long cloaks. As I passed the open doors 
I saw them standing round the hrasero, warming 
themselves; for fireplaces are unknown to Andalusia, 
the only means of heat being the copa, a round brass 
dish in which is placed burning charcoal. 

The height and the cold give Ronda a character 
which reminds one of Northern Spain; the roofs are 
quite steep, the houses low and small, built for 
warmth rather than, as in the rest of Andalusia, for 

[21] 



Andalusia 
coolness. But the whitewash and the barred win- 
dows with their wooden lattice-work, remind you 
that you are in Moorish country, in the very heart 
of it; and Ronda, indeed, figures in chronicles and 
in old ballads as a stronghold of the invaders. The 
temperature affects the habits of the people, even 
their appearance: there is no lounging about the 
squares or at the doors of wine-shops, the streets 
are deserted and their great breadth makes the emp- 
tiness more apparent. The first setters out of the 
town had no need to make the ways narrow for the 
sake of shade, and they are, in fact, so broad that 
the houses on either side might be laid on their 
faces, and there would still be room for the rapid 
stream which hurries down the middle. 

The conformation of a Spanish town, even though 
it lack museums and fine buildings, gives it an interest 
beyond that of most European places. The Moor- 
ish design is always evident. That wise people laid 
out the streets as was most convenient, tortuous and 
narrow at Cordova or broad as a king's highway 
in Ronda. The Moors stayed their time, and their 
hour struck, and they went; the houses had fallen 
to decay and been more than once rebuilt. The 
Christians returned and Mahomet fled before the 
Saints; (it was no shame since they grossly out- 
numbered him;) the mosque was made a church, and 
the houses as they fell were built again, but on the 
same foundations and in the same way. The streets 
[22] 



Ronda 

have remained as the Moors left them, the houses 
still are built round httle courtyards — the patio — 
as the Moors built them; and the windows are 
barred and latticed as of old, the better to protect 
beauty whose dark eyes flash too meaningly at wan- 
dering strangers, whose red lips are over ready to 
break into a smile for the peace of an absent husband. 

After the busy clamour of Gibraltar, that ant- 
nest of a hundred nationaUties, Ronda impresses 
you by its peculiar silence. The lack of sound is 
the more noticeable in the frosty clearness of the 
atmosphere, and is only emphasised by an occasional 
cry that floats, from some vast distance, along the 
air. The coldness, too, has pinched the features of 
the people, and they seem to grow old even earlier 
than in the rest of Andalusia. Strapping fellows of 
thirty with slim figures and a youthful air have the 
faces of elderly men, and their skin is hard, stained 
and furrowed. The women, ageing as rapidly, have 
no gaiety. If Spanish girls have frequently a beau- 
tiful youth, their age too often is atrocious : it is in- 
conceivable that a handsome woman should become 
so fearful a hag; the luxuriant hair is lost, and she 
takes no pains to conceal her grey baldness, the 
eye loses its light, the enchanting down of the upper 
hp turns to a bristly moustache ; the features harden, 
grow coarse and vulgar ; and the countenance assumes 
a rapacious expression, so that she appears a bird of 

[23] 



Andalusia 

prey; and her strident voice Is like the shriek of 
vultures. It is easily comprehensible that the Span- 
ish stage should have taken the old woman as one 
of its most constant, characteristic types. But in 
Ronda even the girls have a weary look, as though 
life were not so easy a matter as in warmer places, 
or as the good God intended; and they seem to 
suffer from the brevity of youth, which is no sooner 
come than gone. They walk inertly, clothed in 
sombre colours, their hair not elaborately arranged 
as would have it the poorest cigarette-girl, but merely 
knotted, without the flower which the Sevillan is 
popularly said to insist upon even at the cost of a 
dinner. And when they go out the grey shawls they 
wrap about their heads add to their unattractive- 
ness. 



[24] 



IV: The Swineherd 

But if Ronda itself is a somewhat dull and unsym- 
pathetic place with nothing more for the edification 
of the visitor than a melodramatic chasm, the sur- 
rounding country is worthy the most extravagant 
epithets. The mountains have the gloomy barren- 
ness, the slate-grey colour of volcanic ranges; they 
encircle the town in a gigantic amphitheatre, rugged 
and overbearing like Titans turned to stone. They 
seem, indeed, to wear a sombre insolence of de- 
meanour as though the aspect of human kind moved 
them to lofty contempt. And in their magnificent 
desolation they offer a fit environment for the ex- 
ploits of Byronic heroes. The handsome villain of 
romance, seductive by the complexity of his emotions, 
by the persistence of his mysterious grief, would find 
himself in that theatrical scene most thoroughly at 
home; nor did Prosper Merimee fail to seize the 
opportunity, for the mountains of Ronda were the 
very hunting-ground of Don Jose, who lost his soul 
for Carmen, But as a matter of history they were 
likewise the haunts of brigands in flesh and blood — 
malefactors in the past had that sense of the pictur- 
esque which now is vested in the amateur photog- 

[25] 



Andalusia 

rapher — and this particular district was as dan- 
gerous to the travelling merchant as any in Spain. 

The environs of Ronda are barren and unfertile, 
the olive groves bear little fruit. I wandered 
through the lonely country, towards the mountains; 
the day was overcast and the clouds hung sluggishly 
overhead. As I walked, suddenly I heard a melan- 
choly voice singing a peasant song, a malagueha. I 
paused to listen, but the sadness was almost unen- 
durable ; and it went on interminably, wailing through 
the air with the insistent monotony of its Moorish 
origin. I struck into the olives to find the singer 
and met a swineherd, guarding a dozen brown pigs, 
a youth thin of face, with dark eyes, clothed in 
undressed sheep-skins; and the brown wool gave him 
a singular appearance of community with the earth 
about him. He stood among the trees like a wild 
creature, more beast than man, and the lank, busy 
pigs burrowed around him, running to and fro, with 
little squeals. He ceased his song when I ap- 
proached and looked up timidly. I spoke to him but 
he made no answer, I offered a cigarette, but he 
shook his head. 

I went my way, and at first the road was not quite 
solitary. Two men passed me on donkeys. " Vaya 
Usted con Diosf " they cried — " Go you with God " : 
it is the commonest greeting in Spain, and the most 
charming; the roughest peasant calls it as you meet 
him. A dozen grey asses went towards Ronda, one 

[26] 



The Swineherd 

after the other, their panniers filled with stones; 
they walked with hanging heads, resigned to all their 
pain. But when at last I came into the mountains 
the loneliness was terrible. Not even the olive grew 
on those dark masses of rock, windswept and sterile; 
there was not a hut nor a cottage to testify of man's 
existence, not even a path such as the wild things of 
the heights might use. All life, indeed, appeared 
incongruous with that overwhelming sohtude. 

Daylight was waning as I returned, but when I 
passed the olive-grove, where many hours before I 
had heard the malaguena, the same monotonous song 
still moaned along the air, carrying back my thoughts 
to the swineherd. I wondered what he thought of 
while he sang, whether the sad words brought him 
some dim emotion. How curious was the life he 
led ! I suppose he had never travelled further than 
his native town; he could neither write nor read. 
Madrid to him was a city where the streets were 
paved with silver and the King's palace was of fine 
gold. He was born and grew to manhood and 
tended his swine, and some day he would marry and 
beget children, and at length die and return to the 
Mother of all things. It seemed to me that nowa- 
days, when civilisation has become the mainstay of 
our lives, it is only with such things as these that 
it is possible to realise the closeness of the tie be- 
tween mankind and nature. To the poor herdsman 
still clung the soil; he was no foreign element in 

[27] 



Andalusia 

the scene, but as much part of it as the stunted olives, 
belonging to the earth intimately as the trees among 
which he stood, as the beasts he tended. 

When I came near the town the sun was setting. 
In the west, tempestuous clouds were massed upon 
one another, and the sun shone blood-red above 
them; but as it sank they were riven asunder, and 
I saw a great furnace that lit up the whole sky. 
The mountains were purple, unreal as the painted 
mountains of a picture. The light was gone from 
the east, and there everything was chill and grey; 
the barren rocks looked so desolate that one shud- 
dered with horror of the cold. But the sun fell 
gold and red, and the rift in the clouds was a king- 
dom of gorgeous light; the earth and its petty 
inhabitants died away, and in the crimson flame I 
could almost see Lucifer standing in his glory, god- 
like and young; Lucifer in all majesty, surrounded 
by his court of archangels, Beelzebub, Belial, Mo- 
loch, Abaddon. 

I had discovered in the morning, from the steeple 
of Santa Maria, a queer ruined church, and was 
oddly impressed by the bare facade, with the yawn- 
ing apertures of empty windows. I went to it, but 
every entrance was bricked up save one, which had 
a door of rough boards fastened by a padlock; and 
in a neighbouring house I found an old man with a 

[28] 



The Swineherd 
key. It was a spot of utter desolation ; the roof had 
gone or had never been. The custodian could not 
tell whether the church was the wreck of an old 
building or a framework that had never been com- 
pleted; the walls were falling to decay. Along the 
nave and in the chapels trees were growing, shrubs 
and rank weeds; it was curious the utter ruin in 
the midst of the populous town. Pigs ran hither 
and thither, feeding, with noisy grunts, as they 
burrowed about the crumbling altar. 

The old man inquired whether I wished to buy, 
and the absolute uselessness of the place fascinated 
me. I asked the price. He looked me up and 
down, and seeing I was foreign, suggested a ridicu- 
lous sum. And while I amused myself with bar- 
gaining, I wondered what on earth one could do with 
a ruined church in Ronda. Half a dozen fantastic 
notions passed through my mind, but they were 
really too melodramatic. 

And now when the sun had set I returned. Not- 
withstanding his suspicions, I induced the keeper to 
give me his key; he could not understand what I 
desired at such an hour in that solitary place, and 
asked if I wished to sleep there ! But I calmed his 
fears with a peseta — money goes a long way in 
Spain — and went in alone. The pigs had been re- 
moved and all was silent. A few bats flitted to and 
fro quickly. The light fell away greyly, the cold 
descended on the ruin, and it became very strange 
[29] 



Andalusia 

and mysterious. Presently, the roofless cRapels 
seemed to grow alive with weird invisible things, the 
rank weeds exhaled chill odours; and in the lonely 
silence a mass began. At the ruined altar ghostly 
priests officiated, passing quietly from side to side, 
with bows and genuflections. The bell tinkled as 
they raised an invisible host. Soon it became quite 
dark, and the moon shone through the great empty 
windows of the fagade. 



[30] 



V: Medinat Az-Zahra 

In what you divine rather than in what you see 
lies half the charm of Andalusia, in the suggestion 
of all manner of dehcate antique things, in the vivid 
memory of past grandeur. The Moors have gone, 
but still they inhabit the land in spirit and not seldom 
in a spectral way seem to regain their old dominion. 
Often towards evening, as I rode through the deso- 
late country, I thought I saw an half-naked Moor 
ploughing his field, urging the lazy oxen with a long 
goad. Often the Spaniard on his horse vanished, 
and I saw a Muslim knight riding in pride and glory, 
his velvet cloak bespattered with the gold initial of 
his lady, and her favour fluttering from his lance. 
Once near Granada, standing on a hill, I watched 
the blood-red sun set tempestuously over the plain; 
and presently in the distance the gnarled olive-trees 
seemed living beings, and I saw contending hosts, 
two ghostly armies silently battling with one an- 
other; I saw the flash of scimitars, and the gleam 
of standards, the whiteness of the turbans. They 
fought with horrible carnage, and the land was crim- 
son with their blood. Then the sun fell below the 
horizon, and all again was still and lifeless. 

[31] 



Andalusia 

And what can be more fascinating than that magic 
city of Az-Zahra, the wonder of its age, of which 
now not a stone remains? It was made to satisfy 
the whim of a concubine by a Sultan whose flamboy- 
ant passion moved him to displace mountains for the 
sake of his beloved; and the memory thereof is lost 
so completely that even its situation till lately was 
uncertain. Az-Zahra the Fairest said to Abd-er- 
Rahman, her lord: " Raise me a city that shall take 
my name and be mine." The Khalif built at the 
foot of the mountain which is called the Hill of the 
Bride; but when at last the lady, from the great hall 
of the palace, gazed at the snow-white city contrast- 
ing with the dark mountain, she remarked: " See, O 
Master ! how beautiful this girl looks in the arms of 
yonder Ethiopian." The jealous Khalif imme- 
diately commanded the removal of the offending hill; 
and when he was convinced the task was impossible, 
ordered that the oaks and other mountain trees 
which grew upon it should be uprooted, and fig-trees 
and almonds planted in their stead. 

Imagine the Hall of the Khalif, with walls of 
transparent and many-coloured marble, with roof 
of gold; on each side were eight doors fixed upon 
arches of ivory and ebony, ornamented with pre- 
cious metals and with precious stones; and when 
the sun penetrated them, the reflection of its rays 
upon the roof and walls was sufficient to deprive the 
beholders of sight ! In the centre was a great basin 

[32] 



Medmat Az-Zahra 

filled with quicksilver, and the Sultan, wishing to 
terrify a courtier, would cause the metal to be set 
in motion, whereupon the apartment would seem 
traversed by flashes of hghtning, and all the com- 
pany would fall a-trembling. 

The old author tells of running streams and of 
limpid water, of stately buildings for the household 
guards, and magnificent palaces for the reception of 
high functionaries of state; of the thronging soldiers, 
pages, eunuchs, slaves, of all nations and of all re- 
ligions, in sumptuous habiliments of silk and of bro- 
cade; of judges, theologians, and poets, walking 
with becoming gravity in the ample courts. . . . 
Alas! that poets now should rush through Fleet 
Street with unseemly haste, attired uncouthly in 
bowler hats and in preposterous tweeds ! 

From the celebrated legend of Roderick the Goth 
to that last scene when Boabdil handed the keys of 
Granada to King Ferdinand, the history of the 
Moorish occupation reads far more like romance 
than like sober fact. It is rich with every kind of 
passionate incident; it has all the strange vicissitudes 
of oriental history. What career could be more 
wonderful than that of Almanzor, who began life 
as a professional letter-writer, (a calling which you 
may still see exercised in the public places of Madrid 
or Seville,) and ended it as absolute ruler of an 
Empire! His charm of manner, his skill in flat- 

[33] 



Andalusia 

tery, the military genius which he developed when 
occasion called, his generosity and sense of justice, 
his love of literature and art, make him a figure 
to be contemplated with admiration ; and when you 
add his utter lack of scruple, his selfishness, his 
ingratitude, his perfidy, you have a character com- 
plex enough to satisfy the most exacting. 

Those who would read of these things may find 
an admirable account in Mr. Lane-Poole's Moors in 
Spain; but I cannot renounce the pleasure of giving 
one characteristic detail. After the death of Abd- 
er-Rahman, the builder of that magnificent city of 
Az-Zahra, a paper was found in his own handwrit- 
ing, upon which he had noted those days in his long 
reign which had been free from all sorrow: they 
numbered fourteen. Sovereign lord of a country 
than which there is on earth none more delightful, 
his life had been of uninterrupted prosperity; suc- 
cess in peace and war attended him always; he pos- 
sessed everything that it was possible for man to 
have. These are the observations of Al Makkary, 
the Arabic historian, when he narrates the incident: 

O man of understanding! Wonder and observe 
the small portion of real happiness the world affords 
even in the most enviable position. Praise be given 
to Him, the Lord of eternal glory and everlasting 
empire! There is no God but He the Almighty, the 
Given of Empire to whomsoever He pleases. 

[34] 



VI: The Mosque 



But Cordova, from which Az-Zahra was about 
four miles distant, has visible delights that can vie 
with its neighbour's vanished pomp. I know noth- 
ing that can give a more poignant emotion than the 
interior of the mosque at Cordova ; and yet I re- 
member well the splendour of barbaric and oriental 
magnificence which was my first sight of St. Mark's 
at Venice, as I came abruptly from the darkness of 
an alley into the golden light of the Piazza. But 
to me at least the famous things of Italy, known 
from childhood in picture and in description, afford 
more than anything a joyful sense of recognition, 
a feeling as it were of home-coming, such as may 
hope to experience the devout Christian on entering 
upon his heritage in the Kingdom of Heaven. The 
mosque of Cordova is oriental and barbaric too; but 
I had never seen nor imagined anything in the least 
resembling it; there was no disillusionment possible, 
as too often in Italy, for the accounts I had read 
prepared me not at all for that overwhelming im- 
pression. It was so wierd and strange, I felt my- 
self transported suddenly to another world. 

They were singing Vespers when I entered, and 
[35] 



Andalusia 
I heard the shrill voices of choristers crying the re- 
sponses ; it did not sound like Christian music. The 
mosque was dimly lit, the air heavy with incense; 
and I saw this forest of pillars, extending every way, 
as far as the eye could reach. It was mysterious 
and awe-inspiring as those enchanted forests of one's 
childhood in which huge trees grew in serried masses 
and where in cavernous darkness goblins and giants 
of the fairy-tales, wild beasts and monstrous shapes, 
lay in wait for the terrified traveller who had lost 
his way. I wandered, keeping the Christian chapels 
out of sight, trying to lose myself among the col- 
umns ; and now and then gained views of horseshoe 
arches interlacing, decorated with Moorish tracery. 

At length I came to the Mihrah, which is the 
Holy of Holies, the most exquisite as well as the 
most sacred part of the mosque. It is approached 
by a vestibule of which the roof is a miracle of 
grace, with mosaics that glow like precious stones, 
ultramarine, scarlet, emerald, and gold. The arch 
between the chambers is ornamented with four pil- 
lars of coloured marble, and again with mosaic, the 
gold letters of an Arabic inscription forming on the 
deep sapphire of the background a decorative pat- 
tern. The Mihrab itself, which contained the fa- 
mous Koran of Othman, has seven sides of white 
marble, and the roof is a huge shell cut from a 
single block. 

I tried to picture to myself the mosque before the 

[36] 



The Mosque 
Christians laid their desecrating hands upon It. 
The floor was of coloured tiles, tiles such as may- 
still be seen in the Alhambra of Granada and in the 
Alcazar at Seville. The columns are of marble, of 
porphyry and jasper; tradition says they came from 
Carthage, from pagan temples in France and Chris- 
tian churches in Spain; they are slender and un- 
adorned, they must have contrasted astonishingly 
with the roof of larch wood, all ablaze with gold 
and with vermilion. 

There were three hundred chandeliers; and eight 
thousand lamps — cast of Christian bells — hung 
from the room. The Arab writer tells of gold shin- 
ing from the ceiling like fire, blazing like lightning 
when it darts across the clouds. The pulpit, wherein 
was kept the Koran, was of ivory and of exquisite 
woods, of ebony and sandal, of plantain, citron and 
aloe, fastened together with gold and silver nails 
and encrusted with priceless gems. It needed six 
Khalifs and Almanzor, the great Vizier, to complete 
the mosque of which Arab writers, with somewhat 
prosaic enthusiasm, said that " in all the lands of 
Islam there was none of equal size, none more 
admirable in its workmanship, in its construction and 
durability." 

Then the Christians conquered Cordova, and the 
charming civilisation of the Moors was driven out by 
monks and priests and soldiers. First they built 

[37] 



Andalusia 
only chapels in the outermost aisles; but in a little 
while, to make room for a choir, they destroyed six 
rows of columns; and at last, when Master Martin 
Luther had rekindled Catholic piety, they set up a 
great church in the very middle of the mosque. The 
story of this vandalism is somewhat quaint, and one 
detail at least affords a suggestion that might prove 
useful in the present time; for the Town Council of 
Cordova menaced with death all who should assist 
in the work: one imagines that a similar threat from 
the Lord Mayor of London might have a salutary 
effect upon the restorers of Westminster Abbey or 
the decorators of St. Paul's. How very much more 
entertaining must have been the world when abso- 
lutism was the fashion and the preposterous method 
of universal suffrage had never been considered ! 
But the Chapter, as those in power always are, was 
bent upon restoring, and induced Charles V. to give 
the necessary authority. The king, however, had 
not understood what they wished to do, and when 
later he visited Cordova and saw what had hap- 
pened, he turned to the dignitaries who were point- 
ing out the improvements and said: " You have built 
what you or others might have built anywhere, but 
you have destroyed something that was unique in 
the world." The words show a fine scorn; but as a 
warning to later generations it would have been 
more to the purpose to cut off a dozen priestly 
heads. 

[38] 



The Mosque 
Yet oddly enough the Christian additions are not 
so utterly discordant as one would expect! Her- 
nan Ruiz did the work well, even though it was work 
he might conveniently have been drawn and quar- 
tered for doing. Typically Spanish in its fine pro- 
portion, in its exuberance of fantastic decoration, 
his church is a masterpiece of plateresque architec- 
ture. Nor are the priests entirely out of harmony 
with the building wherein they worship. For an 
hour they had sung Vespers, and the deep voices of 
the canons, chaunting monotonously, rang weird and 
long among the columns ; but they finished, and left 
the choir one by one, walking silently across the 
church to the sacristy. The black cassock and the 
scarlet hood made a fine contrast, while the short 
cambric surplice added to the costume a most deli- 
cate grace. One of them paused to speak with two 
ladies in mantillas, and the three made a picturesque 
group, suggesting all manner of old Spanish ro- 
mance. 



[39] 



VII: The Court of Oranges 

I went into the cathedral from the side and issu- 
ing by another door, found myself in the Court of 
Oranges. The setting sun touched it with warm 
hght and overhead the sky was wonderfully blue. 
In Moorish times the mosque was separated from 
the court by no dividing-wall, so that the arrange- 
ment of pillars within was continued by the even 
lines of orange-trees; these are of great age and 
size, laden with fruit, and in their copious foliage 
stand with a trim self-assurance that is quite impos- 
ing. 

In the centre, round a fountain into which poured 
water from jets at the four corners, stood a number 
of persons with jars of earthenware and bright cop- 
per cans. One girl held herself with the fine erect- 
ness of a Caryatid, while her jar, propped against 
the side, filled itself with the cold, sparkling water. 
A youth, some vessel in his hand, leaned over in an 
attitude of easy grace; and looking into her eyes, 
appeared to pay compliments, which she heard with 
superb indifference. A little boy ran up, and the 
girl held aside her jar while he put his mouth to 
the spout and drank. Then, as it overflowed, she 

[40] 



The Court of Oranges 
lifted it with comely motion to her head and slowly 
walked away. 

By now the canons had unrobed, and several 
strolled about the court in the sun, smoking ciga- 
rettes. The acolytes with the removal of their scar- 
let cassocks, were become somewhat ragged urchins 
playing pitch and toss with much gesture and vocif- 
eration. Two of them quarrelled fiercely because 
one player would not yield the halfpenny he had 
certainly lost, and the altercation must have ended 
in blows if a corpulent, elderly cleric had not in- 
dignantly reproved them, and boxed their ears. A 
row of tattered beggars, very well contented in the 
sunshine, were seated on a step, likewise smoking 
cigarettes, and obviously they did not consider their 
walk of life unduly hard. 

And the thought impressed itself upon me while 
I lingered in that peaceful spot, that there was 
far more to be said for the simple pleasures of 
sense than northern folk would have us believe. 
The English have still much of that ancient puri- 
tanism which finds a vague sinfulness in the uncostly 
delights of sunshine, and colour, and ease of mind. 
It is well occasionally to leave the eager turmoil of 
great cities for such a place as this, where one may 
learn that there are other, more natural ways of 
living, that it is possible still to spend long days, 
undisturbed by restless passion, without regret or 
longing, content in the various show that nature 

[41] 



Andalusia 

offers, asking only that the sun should shine and the 
happy seasons run their course. 

An English engineer whom I had seen at the 
hotel, approaching me, expressed the idea in his own 
graphic manner. " Down here there are a good 
sight more beer and skittles in life than up in Shef- 
field ! " 

One canon especially interested me, a little thin 
man, bent and wrinkled, apparently of fabulous age, 
but still something of a dandy, for he wore his 
clothes with a certain air, as though half a century 
before, byronically, he had been quite a devil with 
the ladies. The silver buckle on his shoes was most 
elegant, and he protruded his foot as though the 
violet silk of his stocking gave him a discreet pleas- 
ure. To the very backbone he was an optimist, find- 
ing existence evidently so delightful that it did not 
even need rose-coloured spectacles. He was an 
amiable old man, perhaps a little narrow, but very 
indulgent to the follies of others. He had com- 
mitted no sin himself — for many years : a suspicion 
of personal vanity Is in itself proof of a pure and 
gentle mind; and as for the sins of others — they 
were probably not heinous, and at all events would 
gain forgiveness. The important thing, surely, was 
to be sound in dogma. The day wore on and the 
sun now shone only In a narrow space; and this the 
canon perambulated, smoking the end of a cigarette, 
the delectable frivolity of which contrasted pleas- 

[42] 



The Court of Oranges 

antly with his great age. He nodded affably to 
other priests as they passed, a pair of young men, 
and one obese old creature with white hair and an 
expression of comfortable self-esteem. He removed 
his hat with a great and courteous sweep when a 
lady of his acquaintance crossed his path. The 
priests basking in the warmth were like four great 
black cats. It was indeed a pleasant spot, and con- 
tentment oozed into one by every pore. The canon 
rolled himself another cigarette, smiling as he In- 
haled the first sweet whiffs; and one could not but 
think the sovereign herb must greatly ease the jour- 
ney along the steep and narrow way which leads to 
Paradise. The smoke rose into the air lazily, and 
the old cleric paused now and again to look at it, 
the little smile of self-satisfaction breaking on his 
lips. 

Up in the North, under the cold grey sky, God 
Almighty may be a hard taskmaster, and the King- 
dom of Heaven is attained only by much endeavour; 
but in Cordova these things come more easily. The 
aged priest walks in the sun and smokes his cigarillo. 
Heaven is not such an inaccessible place after all. 
Evidently he feels that he has done his duty — with 
the help of Havana tobacco — in that state of life 
wherein it has pleased a merciful providence to place 
him; and St. Peter would never be so churlish as to 
close the golden gates in the face of an ancient canon 
who sauntered to them jauntily, with the fag end of 
[43] 



Andalusia 

a. cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Let us culti- 
vate our cabbages in the best of all possible worlds; 
and afterwards — Dieu pardonnera; c'est son 
metier. 

Three months later in the Porvenir, under the 
heading, " Suicide of a Priest," I read that one of 
these very canons of the Cathedral at Cordova had 
shot himself. A report was heard, said the journal, 
and the Civil Guard arriving, found the man pros- 
trate with blood pouring from his ear, a revolver 
by his side. He was transported to the hospital, 
the sacrament administered, and he died. In his 
pockets they found a letter, a pawn-ticket, a woman's 
bracelet, and some peppermint lozenges. He was 
thirty-five years old. The newspaper moralised as 
follows: " When even the illustrious order to which 
the defunct belonged is tainted with such a crime, it 
is well to ask whither tends the increduhty of society 
which finds an end to its sufferings in the barrel of a 
revolver. Let moralists and philosophers combat 
with all their might this dreadful tendency; let them 
make even the despairing comprehend that death is 
not the highest good but the passage to an unknown 
world where, according to Christian belief, the ill 
deeds of this existence are punished and the virtuous 
rewarded." 



[44] 



VIII: Cordova 

Ronda, owing its peculiarities to the surrounding 
mountains, was not really very characteristic of the 
country, and might equally well have been an high- 
land townlet in any part of Southern Europe. But 
Cordova offers immediately the full sensation of 
Andalusia. It is absolutely a Moorish city, white 
and taciturn, so that you are astonished to meet peo- 
ple in European dress- rather than Arabs, in shuffling 
yellow slippers. The streets are curiously silent; 
for the carriage, as in Tangiers, is done by mules 
and donkeys, which walk so quietly that you never 
hear them. Sometimes you are warned by a deep- 
voiced " Ciiidado," but more often a pannier brush- 
ing you against the wall brings the first knowledge of 
their presence. On looking up you are again sur- 
prised to see not a great shining negro in a burnouse, 
but a Spaniard in tight trousers, with a broad- 
brimmed hat. 

And Cordova has that sweet, exhilarating per- 
fume of Andalusia than which nothing gives more 
vividly the complete feeling of the country. Those 
travellers must be obtuse of nostril who do not 
recognise different smells, grateful or offensive, in 
different places; no other pecuUarity is more distinc- 
[45] 



Andalusia 

tive, so that an odour crossing by chance one's sense 
is able to recall suddenly all the complicated impres- 
sions of a strange land. When I return from Eng- 
land it is always that subtle fragrance which first 
strikes me, a mingling in warm sunlight of orange- 
blossom, incense, and cigarette smoke; and two 
whiffs of a certain brand of tobacco are sufficient 
to bring back to me Seville, the most enchanting of 
all my memories. I suppose that nowhere else are 
cigarettes consumed so incessantly; for in Andalusia 
it is not only certain classes who use them, but 
every one, without distinction of age or station — 
from the ragamuffin selling lottery-tickets in the 
street to the portly, solemn priest, to the burly coun- 
tryman, the shop-keeper, the soldier. After all, no 
better means of killing time have ever been devised, 
and consequently to smoke them affords an occupa- 
tion which most thoroughly suits the Spaniard. 

I looked at Cordova from the bell-tower of the 
cathedral. The roofs, very lovely in their diversity 
of colour, were of rounded tiles, fading with every 
variety of delicate shade from russet and brown to 
yellow and the tenderest green. From the court- 
yards, here and there, rose a tall palm, or an orange- 
tree, like a dash of jade against the brilliant sun. 
The houses, plainly whitewashed, have from the 
outside so mean a look that it is surprising to find 
them handsome and spacious within. They are 
[46] 



Cordova 

built, Moorish fashion, round a patio, which in Cor- 
dova at least is always gay with flowers. When you 
pass the iron gates and note the contrast between the 
snowy gleaming of the street and that southern 
greenery, the suggestion is inevitable of charming 
people who must rest there in the burning heat of 
summer. With those surroundings and in such a 
country passion grows surely like a poisonous plant. 
At night, in the starry darkness, how irresistible must 
be the flashing eyes of love, how eloquent the plead- 
ing of whispered sighs ! But woe to the maid who 
admits the ardent lover among the orange-trees, her 
head reeling with the sweet intoxication of the blos- 
som; for the Spanish gallant is fickle, quick to for- 
get the vows he spoke so earnestly: he soon grows 
tired of kissing, and mounting his horse, rides fast 
away. 

The uniformity of lime-washed houses makes Cor- 
dova the most difficult place in the world wherein 
to find your way. The streets are exactly alike, so 
narrow that a carriage could hardly pass, paved 
with rough cobbles, and tortuous : their intricacy is 
amazing, labyrinthine; they wind in and out of one 
another, leading nowhither; they meander on for 
half a mile and stop suddenly, or turn back, so that 
you are forced to go in the direction you came. You 
may wander for hours, trying to find some point 
that from the steeple appeared quite close. Some- 
times you think they are interminable. 

[47] 



IX: The Bridge of Calahorra 

The bridge that the Moors built over the Guadal- 
quivir straggles across the water with easy arches. 
Somewhat dilapidated and very beautiful, it has not 
the strenuous look of such things in England, and 
the mere sight of it fills you with comfort. The 
clustered houses, with an added softness from the 
light burning mellow on their roofs and on their 
white walls, increase the happy impression that 
the world is not necessarily hurried and toilful. 
And the town, separated from the river by no formal 
embankment, lounges at the water's edge like a 
giant, prone on the grass and lazy, stretching his 
limbs after the mid-day sleep. 

There is no precipitation in such a place as Cor- 
dova ; life is quite long enough for all that it is really 
needful to do; to him who waits come all things, 
and a little waiting more or less can be of no great 
consequence. Let everything be taken leisurely, for 
there is ample time. Yet in other parts of Anda- 
lusia they say the Cordovese are the greatest liars 
and the biggest thieves in Spain, which points to 
considerable industry. The traveller, hearing this, 
will doubtless ask what business has the pot to call 

[48] 



The Bridge of Calahorra 

the kettle black; and it is true that the standard of 
veracity throughout the country is by no means high. 
But this can scarcely be termed a vice, for the Anda- 
lusians see in it nothing discreditable, and it can be 
proved as exactly as a proposition of Euclid that vice 
and virtue are solely matters of opinion. In South- 
ern Spain bosom friends lie to one another with 
complete freedom; no man would take his wife's 
word, but would believe only what he thought true, 
and think no worse of her when he caught her fib- 
bing. Mendacity is a thing so perfectly understood 
that no one is abashed by detection. In England 
most men equivocate and nearly all women, but they 
are ashamed to be discovered; they blush and stam- 
mer and hesitate, or fly into a passion; the wiser 
Spaniard laughs, shrugging his shoulders, and utters 
a dozen rapid falsehoods to make up for the first. 
It is always said that a good liar needs an excellent 
memory, but he wants more qualities than that — 
unblushing countenance, the readiest wit, a manner 
to beget confidence. In fact it is so difficult to lie 
systematically and well that the ardour of the Anda- 
lusians in that pursuit can be ascribed only to an 
innate characteristic. Their imaginations, indeed, 
are so exuberant that the bald fact is to them gro- 
tesque and painful. They are like writers in love 
with words for their own sake, who cannot make the 
plainest statement without a gay parade of epithet 
and metaphor. They embroider and decorate, they 

[49] 



Andalusia 

colour and enhance the trivial details of circum- 
stance. They must see themselves perpetually in 
an attitude; they must never fail to be effective. 
They lie for art's sake, without reason or rhyme, 
from mere devilry, often when it can only harm 
them. Mendacity then becomes an intellectual exer- 
cise, such as the poet's sonneteering to an imaginary 
lady-love. 

But the Cordovan very naturally holds himself in 
no such unflattering estimation. The motto of his 
town avers that he is a warlike person and a wise 
one: 

Cordoba, casa de guerrera gente 
Y de sabiduria clara fuente! 

And the history thereof, with its University and its 
KhaUfs, bears him out. Art and science flourished 
there when the rest of Europe was enveloped in 
mediaeval darkness : when our Saxon ancestors lived 
in dirty hovels, barbaric brutes who knew only how 
to kill, to eat, and to propagate their species, the 
Moors of Cordova cultivated all the elegancies of 
life from verse-making to cleanliness. 

I was standing on the bridge. The river flowed 
tortuously through the fertile plain, broad and shal- 
low, and in it the blue sky and the white houses 
of the city were brightly mirrored. In the distance, 
like a vapour of amethyst, rose the mountains; while 
[50] 



The Bridge of Calahorra 
at my feet, In mid-stream, there were two mills 
which might have been untouched since Moorish 
days. There had been no rain for months, the 
water stood very low, and here and there were little 
islands of dry yellow sand, on which grew reeds and 
sedge. In such a spot might easily have wandered 
the half-naked fisherman of the oriental tale, be- 
wailing in melodious verse the hardness of his lot; 
since to his net came no fish, seeking a broken pot or 
a piece of iron wherewith to buy himself a dinner. 
There might he find a ring half-buried in the sand, 
which, when he rubbed to see if it were silver, a 
smoke would surely rise from the water, increasing 
till the light of day was obscured; and half dead with 
fear, he would perceive at last a gigantic body 
towering above him, and a voice more terrible than 
the thunder of Allah, crying: "What wishest thou 
from thy slave, O king? Know that I am of the 
Jin and Suleyman, whose name be exalted, enslaved 
me to the ring that thou hast found." 

In Cordova recollections of the Arabian Nights 
haunt you till the commonist sights assume a fan- 
tastic character, and the frankly impossible becomes 
mere matter of fact. You wonder whether your 
hfe is real or whether you have somehow reverted 
to the days when Scheherazade, with her singular 
air of veracity, recited such enthralling stories to her 
lord as to save her own hfe and that of many other 
maidens. I looked along the river and saw three 

[51] 



Andalusia 

slender trees bending over It, reflecting in the placid 
water their leafless branches, and under them knelt ' 
three women washing clothes. Were they three 
beautiful princesses whose fathers had been killed, 
and they expelled from their kingdom and thus re- 
duced to menial occupations? Who knows? In- 
deed, I thought it very probable, for so many royal 
persons have come down in the world of late; but 
I did not approach them, since king's daughters 
under these circumstances have often lost one eye, 
and their morals are nearly always of the worst 
description. 



[52] 



X: Puerta del Puente 

I went back to the old gate which led to the 
bridge. Close by, in the little place, was the hut 
of the consumo, the local custom-house, with officials 
lounging at the door or sitting straddle-legged on 
chairs, lazily smoking. Opposite was a tobaccon- 
ist's, with the gaudy red and yellow sign, Compania 
arrendataria de tahacos, and a dram-shop where 
three hardy Spaniards from the mountains stood 
drinking aguardiente. Than this, by the way, there 
is in the world no more insidious liquor, for at first 
you think its taste of aniseed and peppermint very 
disagreeable; but perseverance, here as in other 
human affairs, has its reward, and presently you 
develop for it a liking which time increases to enthu- 
siasm. In Spain, the land of custom and usage, 
everything is done in a certain way; and there is a 
proper manner to drink aguardiente. To sip it 
would show a lamentable want of decorum. A 
Spaniard lifts the little glass to his lips, and with a 
comic, abrupt motion tosses the contents into his 
mouth, immediately afterwards drinking water, a 
tumbler of which is always given with the spirit. 
It is really the most epicurean of intoxicants because 

[53] 



Andalusia 

the charm lies in the after-taste, water is so cool and 
refreshing after the fieriness; it gives, without the 
gasconnade, the emotion Keats experienced when he 
peppered his mouth with cayenne for the greater en- 
joyment of iced claret. 

But the men wiped their mouths with their hands 
and came out of the wine shop, mounting their 
horses which stood outside — shaggy, long-haired 
beasts with high saddles and great box-stirrups. 
They rode slowly through the gate one after the 
other, in the easy slouching way of men who have 
been used to the saddle all their lives and in the 
course of the week are accustomed to go a good 
many miles in an easy jog-trot to and from the town. 
It seems to me that the Spaniards resolve themselves 
into types more distinctly than is usual in northern 
countries, while between individuals there is less 
difference. These three, clean-shaven and uniformly 
dressed, of middle size, stout, with heavy strong 
features and small eyes, certainly resembled one 
another very strikingly. They were the typical inn- 
keepers of Goya's pictures, but obviously could not 
all keep inns; doubtless they were farmers, horse- 
dealers, or forage-merchants, shrewd men of busi- 
ness, with keen eyes for the main chance. That 
class is the most trustworthy in Spain, kind, hospit- 
able, and honest; they are old-fashioned people with 
many antique customs, and preserve much of the 
courteous dignity which made their fathers famous. 

[54] 



Puerta del Puente 

A string of grey donkeys came along the bridge, 
their panniers earth-laden, poor miserable things 
that plodded slowly and painfully, with heads bent 
down, placing one foot before the other with the 
donkey's peculiar motion, patiently doing a thing 
they had patiently done ever since they could bear a 
load. They seemed to have a dull feeling that it 
was no use to make a fuss, or to complain; it would 
just go on till they dropped down dead and their 
carcases were sold for leather and glue. There 
was a Spanish note in the red trappings, braided and 
betasselled, but all worn, discoloured and stained. 

Inside the gate they stopped, waiting in a huddled 
group, with the same heavy patience, for the exam- 
ination of the consumo. An officer of the custom- 
house went round with a long steel prong, which 
he ran into the baskets one by one, to see that there 
was nothing dutiable hidden in the earth. Then, 
sparing of his words, he made a sign to the driver 
and sat down again straddle-wise on his chair. 
" Arre, hurra!" The first donkey walked slowly 
on, and as they heard the tinkling of the leader's 
bell the rest stepped forward in the long line, their 
heads hanging down, with that hopeless movement 
of the feet. 

In the night, wandering at random through the 
streets, their silent whiteness filled me again with 
that intoxicating sensation of the Arabian Nights. 

[55] 



Andalusia 

I looked through the iron gateways as I passed, into 
the patios with their dark fohage, and once 1 heard 
the melancholy twang of a guitar. I was sure that 
in one of those houses the three princesses had 
thrown off their disguise and sat radiant in queenly 
beauty, their raven tresses falling in a hundred plaits 
over their shoulders, their fingers stained with henna 
and their long eyelashes darkened with kohl. But 
alas ! though I lost my way I found them not. 

Yet many an amorous Spaniard, too passionate to 
be admitted within his mistress' house, stood at her 
window. This method of philandering, surely most 
conducive to the ideal, is variously known as comer 
hierro, to eat iron, and pelar la pava, to pluck the 
turkey. One imagines that the cold air of a winter's 
night must render the most ardent lover platonic. 
It is a significant fact that in Spanish novels if the 
hero is left for two minutes along with the heroine 
there are invariably asterisks and some hundred 
pages later a baby. So it is doubtless wise to sep- 
arate true love by Iron bars, and perchance beauty's 
eyes flash more darkly to the gallant standing with- 
out the gate; illusions, the magic flower of passion, 
arise more willingly. But in Spain the blood of 
youth is very hot, love laughs at most restraints and 
notwithstanding these precautions, often enough 
there is a catastrophe. The Spaniard, who will 
seduce any girl he can, is pitiless under like circum- 
stances to his own womankind; so there is much 
I56] 



Puerta del Puente 
weeping, the girl is turned out of doors and falls 
readily into the hands of the procuress. In the 
brothels of Seville or of Madrid she finds at least 
a roof and bread to eat; and the fickle swain goes 
his way rejoicing. 

I found myself at last near the Puerta del Puente, 
and I stood again on the Moorish bridge. The 
town was still and mysterious in the night, and the 
moon shone down on the water with a hard and 
brilliant coldness. The three trees with their bare 
branches looked yet more slender, naked and alone, 
like pre-Raphaellte trees in a landscape of Pelleas et 
Melisande; the broad river, almost stagnant, was 
extraordinarily calm and silent. I wondered what 
strange things the placid Guadalquivir had seen 
through the centuries; on its bosom many a body 
had been borne towards the sea. It recalled those 
mysterious waters of the Eastern tales which brought 
to the marble steps of palaces great chests in which 
lay a fair youth's headless corpse or a sleeping beau- 
tiful maid. 



[57] 



XI: Seville 

The impression left by strange towns and cities 
is often a matter of circumstance, depending upon 
events in the immediate past; or on the chance which, 
during his earliest visit, there befell the traveller. 
After a stormy passage across the Channel, New- 
haven, from the mere fact of its situation on solid 
earth, may gain a fascination which closer acquaint- 
ance can never entirely destroy; and even Birming- 
ham, first seen by a lurid sunset, may so affect the 
imagination as to appear for ever like some infernal, 
splendid city, restless with the hurried toil of gnomes 
and goblins. So to myself Seville means ten times 
more than it can mean to others. I came to it after 
weary years in London, heartsick with much hop- 
ing, my mind dull with drudgery; and it seemed a 
land of freedom. There I became at last conscious 
of my youth, and it seemed a belvedere upon a new 
life. How can I forget the delight of wandering 
in the Sierpes, released at length from all imprison- 
ing ties, watching the various movement as though 
it were a stage-play, yet half afraid that the faUing 
curtain would bring back reality! The songs, the 
dances, the happy idleness of orange-gardens, the 
gay turbulence of Seville by night; ah! there at least 

[58] 



Seville 

I seized life eagerly, with both hands, forgetting 
everything but that time was short and existence 
full of joy. I sat in the warm sunshine, inhaling 
the pleasant odours, reminding myself that I had no 
duty to do then, or the morrow, or the day after. 
I lay a-bed thinking how happy, effortless and free 
would be my day. Mounting my horse, I clattered 
through the narrow streets, over the cobbles, till I 
came to the country; the air was fresh and sweet, 
and Aguador loved the spring mornings. When he 
put his feet to the springy turf he gave a little shake 
of pleasure, and without a sign from me broke into 
a gallop. To the amazement of shepherds guard- 
ing their wild flocks, to the confusion of herds of 
brown pigs, scampering hastily as we approached, 
he and I excited by the wind singing in our ears, we 
pelted madly through the country. And the whole 
land laughed with the joy of living. 

But I love also the recollection of Seville in the 
grey days of December, when the falling rain offered 
a grateful contrast to the unvarying sunshine. Then 
new sights delighted the eye, new perfumes the 
nostril. In the decay of that long southern autumn 
a more sombre opulence was added to the gay 
colours; a different spirit filled the air, so that I 
realised suddenly that old romantic Spain of Ferd- 
inand and Isabella. It lay a-dying still, gorgeous in 
corruption, sober yet flamboyant, rich and poverty- 
stricken, squaUd, magnificent. The white streets, 
[59] 



Andalusia 

the dripping trees, the clouds gravid with rain, gave 
to all things an adorable melancholy, a sad, poetic 
charm. Looking back, I cannot dismiss the sus- 
picion that my passionate emotions were somewhat 
ridiculous, but at twenty-three one can afford to lack 
a sense of humour. 

But Seville at first is full of disillusion. It has 
offered abundant material to the idealist who, as 
might be expected, has drawn of it a picture which 
is at once common and pretentious. Your idealist 
can see no beauty in sober fact, but must array it in 
all the theatrical properties of a vulgar imagination; 
he must give to things more imposing proportions, 
he colours gaudily; Nature for him is ever posturing 
in the full glare of footlights. Really he stands on 
no higher level than the housemaid who sees in every 
woman a duchess in black velvet, an Aubrey Plan- 
tagenet in plain John Smith. So I, in common with 
many another traveller, expected to find in the Gua- 
dalquivir a river of transparent green, with orange- 
groves along its banks, where wandered ox-eyed 
youths and maidens beautiful. Palm-trees, I 
thought, rose towards heaven, like passionate souls 
longing for release from earthly bondage; Spanish 
women, full-breasted and sinuous, danced boleros, 
fandangos, while the air rang with the joyous sound 
of castanets, and toreadors in picturesque habili- 
ments twanged the light guitar. 

[60] 



Seville 

Alas! the Guadalquivir is like yellow mud, and 
moored to the busy quays lie cargo-boats lading 
fruit or grain or mineral; there no perfume scents 
the heavy air. The nights, indeed, are calm and 
clear, and the stars shine brightly; but the river 
banks see no amours more romantic than those of 
stokers from Liverpool or Glasgow, and their lady- 
loves have neither youth nor beauty. 

Yet Seville has many a real charm to counter- 
balance these lost illusions. He that really knows 
it, like an ardent lover with his mistress' imperfec- 
tions, would have no difference; even the Guadal- 
quivir, so matter-of-fact, really so prosaic, has an 
unimagined attractiveness ; the crowded shipping, the 
hurrying porters, add to that sensation of vivacity 
which is of Seville the most fascinating character- 
istic. And Seville is an epitome of Andalusia, with 
its life and death, with its colour and vivid contrasts, 
with its boyish gaiety. 

It is a city of delightful ease, of freedom and sun- 
shine, of torrid heat. There it does not matter what 
you do, nor when, nor how you do it. There is 
none to hinder you, none to watch. Each takes his 
ease, and is content that his neighbour should do 
the like. Doubtless people are lazy in Seville, but 
good heavens ! why should one be so terribly stren- 
uous? Go into the Plaza Nueva, and you will see 
it filled with men of all ages, of all classes, " taking 
the sun " ; they promenade slowly, untroubled by any 
[6i] 



Andalusia 

mental activity, or sit on benches between the palm- 
trees, smoking cigarettes; perhaps the more ener- 
getic read the bull-fighting news in the paper. They 
are not ambitious, and they do not greatly care to 
make their fortunes; so long as they have enough 
to eat and drink — food is very cheap — and ciga- 
rettes to smoke, they are quite happy. The Cor- 
poration provides seats, and the sun shines down 
for nothing — so let them sit in it and warm them- 
selves. I daresay it is as good a way of getting 
through life as most others. 

A southern city never reveals its true charm till 
the summer, and few English know what Seville is 
under the burning sun of July. It was built for the 
great heat, and it is only then that the refreshing 
coolness of the patio can be appreciated. In the 
streets the white glare is mitigated by awnings that 
stretch from house to house, and the half light in 
the Sierpes, the High Street, has a curious effect; 
the people in their summer garb walk noiselessly, as 
though the warmth made sound impossible. To- 
wards evening the sail-cloths are withdrawn, and a 
breath of cold air sinks down; the population be- 
stirs itself, and along the Sierpes the cafes become 
suddenly crowded and noisy. 

Then, for it was too hot to ride earlier, I would 
mount my horse and cross the river. The Guadal- 
quivir had lost its winter russet, and under the blue 
sky gained varied tints of liquid gold, of emerald 

[62] 



Seville 

and of sapphire. I lingered in Triana, the gipsy- 
quarter, watching the people. Beautiful girls stood 
at the windows, so that the whole way was lined with 
them, and their lips were not unwilling to break into 
charming smiles. One especially I remember who 
was used to sit on a balcony at a street-corner; her 
hair was irreproachable in its elaborate arrangement, 
and the red carnation in it gleamed like fire against 
the night. Her face was long, fairer-complexioned 
than is common, with regular and delicate features. 
She sat at her balcony, with a huge book open on 
her knee, which she read with studied disregard of 
the passers-by; but when I looked back sometimes 
I saw that she had lifted her eyes, lustrous and dark, 
and they met mine gravely. 

And in the country I passed through long fields of 
golden corn, which reached as far as I could see; I 
remembered the spring, when it had all been new, 
soft, fresh, green. And presently I turned round 
to look at Seville in the distance, bathed in brilliant 
light, glowing as though its walls were built of yellow 
flame. The Giralda arose in its wonderful grace 
like an arrow; so slim, so comely, it reminded one 
of an Arab youth, with long, thin hmbs. With the 
setting sun, gradually the city turned rosy-red and 
seemed to lose all substantiality, till it became a 
many-shaped mist that was dissolved in the tender- 
ness of the sky. 

Late in the night I stood at my window looking 

[63] 



Andalusia 

at the cloudless heaven. From the earth ascended, 
like incense, the mellow odours of summer-time; the 
belfry of the neighbouring church stood boldly out- 
lined against the darkness, and the storks that had 
built their nest upon it were motionless, not stirring 
even as the bells rang out the hours. The city slept, 
and it seemed that I alone watched in the silence; 
the sky still was blue, and the stars shone in their 
countless millions. I thought of the city that never 
rested, of London with its unceasing roar, the end- 
less streets, the greyness. And all around me was 
a quiet serenity, a tranquillity such as the Christian 
may hope shall reward him in Paradise for the 
troublous pilgrimage of life. But that is long ago 
and passed for ever. 



[64] 



XII: The Alcazar 

Arriving at Seville the recollection of Cordova 
took me quickly to the Alcazar; but I was a little 
disappointed. It has been ill and tawdrily restored, 
with crude pigments, with gold that is too bright and 
too clean; but even before that, Charles V. and his 
successors had made additions out of harmony with 
Moorish feeling. Of the palace where lived the 
Mussulman Kings nothing, indeed, remains; but 
Pedro the Cruel, with whom the edifice now stand- 
ing is more especially connected, was no less oriental 
than his predecessors, and he employed Morisco 
architects to rebuild it. Parts are said to be exact 
reproductions of the older structure, while many of 
the beautiful tiles were taken from Moorish houses. 

The atmosphere, then, is but half Arabic; the 
rest belongs to that flaunting, multi-coloured bar- 
barism which is characteristic of Northern Spain 
before the union of Arragon and Castile. Wander- 
ing in the deserted courts, looking through horse- 
shoe windows of exquisite design at the wild garden, 
Pedro the Cruel and Maria de Padilla are the figures 
that occupy the mind. 

Seville teems with anecdotes of the monarch who, 

[65] 



Andalusia 

according to the point of view, has been called the 
Cruel and the Just. He was an amorist for whom 
platonic dalliance had no charm, and there are 
gruesome tales of ladies burned alive because they 
would not quench the flame of his desires, of others, 
fiercely virtuous, who poured boiling oil on face and 
bosom to make themselves unattractive in his sight. 
But the head that wears a crown apparently has 
fascinations which few women can resist, and legend 
tells more frequently of Pedro's conquests than of 
his rebuffs. He was an ardent lover to whcMmar- 
riage vows were of no importance; that he com- 
mitted bigamy is certain — and pardonable, but some 
historians are inclined to think that he had at one 
and the same time no less than three wives. He was 
oriental in his tastes. 

In imitation of the Paynim sovereigns Pedro 
loved to wander in the streets of Seville at night, 
alone and disguised, to seek adventure or to see for 
himself the humour of his subjects; and like them 
also it pleased him to administer justice seated in 
the porch of his palace. If he was often hard and 
proud towards the nobles, with the people he was 
always very gracious; to them he was the redressor 
of wrongs and a protector of the oppressed; his 
justice was that of the Mussulman rulers, rapid, 
terrible and passionate, often quaint. For instance : 
a rich priest had done some injury to a cobbler, who 
brought him before the ecclesiastical tribunals, 
[66^ 



The Alcazar 

where he was for a year suspended from his clerical 
functions. The tradesman thought the punishment 
inadequate, and taking the law into his own hands 
gave the priest a drubbing. He was promptly 
seized, tried, condemned to death. But he appealed 
to the king who, with a witty parody of the rival 
Court, changed the punishment to suspension from 
his trade, and ordered the cobbler for twelve months 
to make no boots. 

On the other hand, the Alcazar itself has been the 
scene of Pedro's vilest crimes, in the whole list of 
which is none more insolent, none more treacherous, 
than that whereby he secured the priceless ruby 
which graces still the royal crown of England. 
There is a school of historians which insists on 
finding a Baptist Minister in every hero — think 
what a poor-blooded creature they wish to make of 
the glorious Nelson — but no casuistry avails to 
cleanse the memory of Pedro of Castile : even for 
his own ruthless age he was a monster of cruelty and 
lust. Indeed the indignation with which his bio- 
graphers have felt bound to charge their pens has 
somewhat obscured their judgment; they have so 
eagerly insisted on the censure with which them- 
selves regard their hero's villainies, that they have 
found little opportunity to explain a complex char- 
acter. Yet the story of his early life affords a 
simple key to his maturity. Till the age of fifteen 
he lived in prisons, suffering with his mother every 

[67] 



Andalusia 
insult and humiliation, while his father's mistress 
kept queenly state, and her children received the 
honours of royal princes. When he came to the 
throne he found himself a catspaw between his 
natural brothers and ambitious nobles. His nearest 
relatives were ever his bitterest enemies, and he was 
continually betrayed by those he trusted; even his 
mother delivered to the rebellious peers the strong- 
holds and treasures he had left in her charge and 
caused him to be taken prisoner. As a boy he had 
been violent and impetuous, yet always loyal: but 
before he was twenty he became suspicious and mis- 
trustful; in his weakness he made craft and perfidy 
his weapons, practising to compose his face, to feign 
f orgetfulness of injury till the moment of vengeance ; 
he learned to dissemble so that none could tell his 
mind, and treated no courtiers with greater favour 
than those upon whose death he had already de- 
termined. 

Intermingled with this career of vice and perfidy 
and bloodshed is the love of Maria de Padilla, whom 
the king met when he was eighteen, and till her 
death loved passionately — with brief inconstancies, 
for fidelity has never been a royal virtue; and she 
figures with gentle pathos in that grim history like 
wild perfumed flowers on a storm-beaten coast. 
After the assassination of the unfortunate Blanche, 
the French Queen whom he loathed with an extra- 
[68] 



The Alcazar 

ordinary physical repulsion, Pedro acknowledged a 
secret marriage with Maria de Padilla, which legiti- 
mised her children; but for ten years before she 
had been treated with royal rights. The historian 
says that she was very beautiful, but her especial 
charm seems to have been that voluptuous grace 
which is characteristic of Andulusian women. She 
was simple and pious, with a nature of great sweet- 
ness, and she never abused her power; her influence, 
as runs the hackneyed phrase, was always for good, 
and untiringly she did her utmost to incline her 
despot lover to mercy. She alone sheds a ray of 
light on Pedro's memory, only her love can save 
him from the execration of posterity. When she 
died rich and poor alike mourned her, and the king 
was inconsolable. He honoured her with pompous 
obsequies, and throughout the kingdom ordered 
masses to be sung for the rest of her soul. 

The guardians of the Alcazar show you the cham- 
bers in which dwelt this gracious lady, and the 
garden-fountain wherein she bathed in summer. 
Moralists, anxious to prove that the way of right- 
eousness is hard, say that beauty dies, but they err, 
for beauty is immortal. The habitations of a lovely 
woman never lose the enchantment she has cast over 
them, her comeliness lingers In the empty chambers 
like a subtle odour; and centuries after her very 

[69] 



Andalusia 

bones have crumbled to dust it is her presence alone 
that is felt, her footfall that is heard on the marble 
floors. 

Garish colours, alas ! have driven the tender spirit 
of Maria de Padilla from the royal palace, but it has 
betaken itself to the old garden, and there wanders 
sadly. It is a charming place of rare plants and 
exotic odours; cypress and tall palm trees rise to- 
wards the blue sky with their irresistible melancholy, 
their far-away suggestion of burning deserts; and 
at their feet the ground is carpeted with violets. 
Yet to me the wild roses brought strange recollec- 
tions of England, of long summer days when the air 
was sweet and balmy; the birds sang heavenly songs, 
the same songs as they sing in June in the fat Kentish 
fields. The gorgeous palace had only suggested the 
long past days of history, and Seville the joy of life 
and the love of sunshine; but the old quiet garden 
took me far away from Spain, so that I longed to be 
again in England. In thought I wandered through a 
garden that I knew in years gone by, filled also with 
flowers, but with hollyhocks and jasmine; the breeze 
carried the sweet scent of the honeysuckle to my 
nostrils, and I looked at the green lawns, with the 
broad, straight lines of the grass-mower. The low 
of cattle reached my ears, and wandering to the 
fence I looked into the fields beyond; yellow cows 
grazed idly or lay still chewing the cud; they stared 
at me with listless, sleepy eyes. 
[70] 



The Alcazar 

But I glanced up and saw a flock of wild geese 
flying northwards in long lines that met, making two 
sides of a huge triangle; they flew quickly in the 
cloudless sky, far above me, and presently were lost 
to view. About me was the tall box-wood of the 
southern garden, and tropical plants with rich 
flowers of yellow and red and purple. A dark fir- 
tree stood out, ragged and uneven, like a spirit of 
the North, erect as a life without reproach; but the 
foliage of the palms hung down with a sad, adorable 
grace. 



[71] 



XIII: Calk de las Sierpes 

In Seville the Andalusian character thrives in its 
finest flower; and nowhere can it be more conven- 
iently studied than in the narrow, sinuous, crowded 
thoroughfare which is the oddest street in Europe. 
The Calle de las Sierpes is merely a pavement, 
hardly broader than that of Piccadilly, without a 
carriage-way. The houses on either side are very 
irregular; some are tall, four-storeyed, others quite 
tiny; some are well kept and freshly painted, others 
dilapidated. It is one of the curiosities of Seville 
that there is no particularly fashionable quarter; 
and, as though some moralising ruler had wished to 
place before his people a continual reminder of 
the uncertainty of human greatness, by the side of 
a magnificent palace you will find a hovel. 

At no hour of the day does the Calle de las Sierpes 
lack animation, but to see it at its best you must go 
towards evening, at seven o'clock, for then there is 
scarcely room to move. Fine gentlemen stand at 
the club doors or sit within, looking out of the huge 
windows; the merchants and the students, smoking 
cigarettes, saunter, wrapped magnificently in their 
capas. Cigarette-girls pass with roving eyes; they 

[72] 



Calle de las Sierpes 
suffer from no false modesty and smile with pleasure 
when a compliment reaches their ears. Admirers 
do not speak in too low a tone and the fair Sevillan 
is never hard of hearing. 

Newspaper boys with shrill cries announce even- 
ing editions : '^ Por-u^wir.' Noticierof " Vendors of 
lottery-tickets wander up and down, audaciously of- 
fering the first prize : '' Quien quiere el premio 
gordo? " Beggars follow you with piteous tales of 
fasts improbably extended. But most striking is the 
gente flamenca, the bull-fighter, with his numerous 
hangers-on. The toreros — toreador is an un- 
known word, good for comic opera and persons who 
write novels of Spanish life and cannot be bothered 
to go to Spain — the toreros sit In their especial cafe, 
the Cerveceria Nacional, or stand In little groups 
talking to one another. They are distinguishable by 
the coleta, which Is a little plait of hair used to at- 
tach the chignon of full-dress : it is the dearest ambi- 
tion of the aspirant to the bull-ring to possess this 
ornament; he grows it as soon as he is full-fledged, 
and it is solemnly cut off when the weight of years 
and the responsibility of landed estates induce him 
to retire from the profession. The bull-fighter 
dresses peculiarly and the gente flamenca imitates 
him so far as its means allow. A famous matador 
is as well paid as In England a Cabinet Minister or 
a music-hall artiste. This Is his costume: a broad- 
brimmed hat with a low crown, which Is something 

[73] 



Andalusia 

like a topper absurdly flattened down, with brims 
preposterously broadened out. The front of his 
shirt is befrdled and embroidered, and his studs are 
the largest diamonds; not even financiers in England 
wear such important stones. He wears a low collar 
without a necktie, but ties a silk handkerchief round 
his neck like an English navvy; an Eton jacket, fitting 
very tightly, brown, black, or grey, with elaborate 
frogs and much braiding; the trousers, skin-tight 
above, loosen below, and show off the lower extrem- 
ities when, like the heroes of feminine romance, the 
wearer has a fine leg. Indeed, it is a mode of 
dress which exhibits the figure to great advantage, 
and many of these young men have admirable forms. 
In their strong, picturesque way they are often 
very handsome. They have a careless grace of ges- 
ture, a manner of actors perfectly at ease in an 
effective part, a brutal healthiness; there is a flam- 
boyance in their bearing, a melodramatic swagger, 
which is most diverting. And their faces, so con- 
trasted are the colours, so strongly marked the 
features, are full of interest. Clean shaven, the 
beard shows violet through the olive skin; they have 
high cheek bones and thin, almost hollow cheeks, 
with eyes set far back in the sockets, dark and lus- 
trous under heavy brows. The black hair, admir- 
ably attached to the head, is cut short; shaved on 
the temples and over the ears, brushed forward as 
in other countries is fashionable with gentlemen of 

[74] 



Calle de las Sierpes 
the box; it fits the skull like a second, tighter skin. 
The lips are red and sensual, the teeth white, regu- 
lar and well shaped. The bull-fighter is remark- 
able also for the diamond rings which decorate his 
fingers and the massive gold, the ponderous seals, of 
his watch-chain. 

Who can wonder then that maidens fair, their 
hearts turning to thoughts of love, should cast fav- 
ourable glances upon this hero of a hundred fights? 
The conquests of tenors and grand-dukes and fid- 
dlers are insignificant beside those of a bull-fighter; 
and the certainty of feminine smiles is another in- 
ducement for youth to exchange the drudgery of 
menial occupations for the varied excitement of the 
ring. 

At night the Sierpes is different again. Little 
by little the people scatter to their various homes, 
the shops are closed, the clubs put out their lights, 
and by one the loiterers are few. The contrast is 
vivid between the noisy throng of day-time and this 
sudden stillness; the emptiness of the winding street 
seems almost unnatural. The houses, losing all 
variety, are intensely black; and above, the sinuous 
line of sky is brilliant with clustering stars. A 
drunken roysterer reels from a tavern-door, his 
footfall echoing noisily along the pavement, but 
quickly he sways around a corner; and the silence, 
more impressive for the interruption, returns. The 

■ [75] 



Andalusia 

night-watchman, huddled in a cloak of many folds, 
is sleeping in a doorway, dimly outlined by the yel- 
low gleam of his lantern. 

Then I, lover of late hours, returning, seek the 
giiardia. Sevillan houses are locked at midnight by 
this individual, who keeps the latch-keys of a whole 
street, and is supposed to be on the look-out for 
tardy comers. I clap my hands, such being the Span- 
ish way to attract attention, and shout; but he does 
not appear. He is a good-natured, round man, bib- 
ulous, with grey hair and a benevolent manner. I 
know his habits and resign myself to inquiring for 
him in the neighbouring dram-shops. I find him 
at last and assail him with all the abuse at my com- 
mand; he is too tipsy to answer or to care, and 
follows me, jangling his keys. He fumbles with 
them at the door, blaspheming because they are so 
much alike, and finally lets me in. 

" Buena noche. Descanse v bien." 



[76] 



XIV: Characteristics 

It is a hazardous thing to attempt the analysis 
of national character, for after all, however careful 
the traveller may be in his inquiries, it is from the 
few individuals himself has known that his most 
definite impressions are drawn. Of course he can 
control his observations by asking the opinion of 
foreigners long resident in the country; but curi- 
ously enough in Andalusia precisely the opposite 
occurs from what elsewhere is usual. Aliens in 
England, France, or Italy, with increasing compre- 
hension, acquire also affection and esteem for the 
people among whom they live; but I have seldom 
found in Southern Spain a foreigner — and there 
are many, merchants, engineers and the like, with 
intimate knowledge of the inhabitants — who had 
a good word to say for the Andalusians. 

But perhaps it is in the behaviour of crowds that 
the most accurate picture of national character can 
be obtained. Like composite photographs which 
give the appearance of a dozen people together, but 
a recognisable portrait of none, the multitude offers 
as it were a likeness in the rough, without precision 
of detail yet with certain marked features more 
[77] 



Andalusia 

obviously indicated. The crowd is an individual 
without responsibility, unoppressed by the usual ties 
of prudence and decorum, who betrays himself be- 
cause he lacks entirely self-consciousness and the de- 
sire to pose. In Spain the crowd is above all things 
good-humoured, fond of a joke so long as it is 
none too subtle, excitable of course and prone to 
rodomontade, yet practical, eager to make the best 
of things and especially to get its money's worth. 
If below the surface there are a somewhat brutal 
savagery, a cruel fickleness, these are traits common 
with all human beings together assembled; they are 
merely evidence of man's close relationship to ape 
and tiger. 

From contemporary novels more or less the same 
picture appears, and also from the newspapers, 
though in these somewhat idealised; for the Press, 
bound to flatter for its living, represents its patrons, 
as do some portrait-painters, not as they are but as 
they would like to be. In the eyes of Andalusian 
journalists their compatriots are for ever making — 
a magnificent gesture; and the condition would be 
absurd if a hornets' nest of comic papers, tempering 
vanity with a lively sense of the ridiculous, did not 
save the situation by abundantly coarse caricatures. 

It is vanity then which emerges as the most dis- 
tinct of national traits, a vanity so egregious, so 
childish, so grotesque, that the onlooker is astounded. 
The Andalusians have a passion for gorgeous rai- 
[78] 



Characteristics 
ment and for jewellery. They must see themselves 
continually in the brightest light, standing for ever 
on some alpine eminence of vice or virtue, in full 
view of their fellow men. Like schoolboys they 
will make themselves out desperate sinners to arouse 
your horror, and if that does not impress you, ac- 
complished actors ready to suit your every mood, 
they will pose as saints than whom none more truly 
pious have existed on the earth. They are the Gas- 
cons of Spain, but beside them the Bordelais is a 
truthful, unimaginative creature. 

Next comes laziness. There is in Europe no 
richer soil than that of Andalusia, and the Arabs, 
with an elaborate system of irrigation, obtained 
three crops a year; but now half the land lies unculti- 
vated, and immense tracts are planted only with 
olives, which, comparatively, entail small labour. 
But the inhabitants of this fruitful country are happy 
in this, that boredom is unknown to them; content 
to lie in the sun for hours, neither talking, thinking, 
nor reading, they are never tired of idleness: two 
men will sit for half a day in a cafe, with a glass of 
water before them, not exchanging three remarks 
in an hour. I fancy it is this stolidness which has 
given travellers an impression of dignity; in their 
quieter moments they remind one of very placid 
sheep, for they have not half the energy of pigs, 
which in Spain at least are restless and spirited crea- 
tures. But a trifle will rouse them; and then, quite 

[79] 



Andalusia 

unable to restrain themselves, pallid with rage, they 
hurl abuse at their enemy — Spanish, they say, is 
richer in invective than any other European tongue 
— and quickly long knives are whipped out to 
avenge the affront. 

Universal opinion has given its verdict in an 
epithet; and just as people speak of the volatile 
Frenchman, the stolid Dutchman, the amatory Ital- 
ian, they talk of the proud Spaniard. But it is a 
pride of a peculiar sort; a Sevillan with only the 
smallest claims to respectability would rather die 
than carry a parcel through the street; however 
poor, some one must perform for him so menial an 
office; and he would consider it vastly beneath his 
dignity to accept charity, though if he had the chance 
would not hesitate to swindle you out of sixpence. 
But in matters of honesty these good people show 
a certain discrimination. Your servants, for ex- 
ample, would hesitate to steal money, especially If 
liable to detection, but not to take wine and sugar 
and oil; which is proved by the freedom with which 
they discuss the theft among themselves and the 
calmness with which they acknowledge it when a 
wrathful master takes them in the act. The reason- 
ing is, if you're such a fool as not to keep your things 
under lock and key you deserve to be robbed; and 
if dismissed for such a peccadillo they consider them- 
selves very hardly used. 

Uncharitable persons, saying that a Spaniard will 

[80] 



Characteristics 

live for a week on bread and water duly to prepare 
himself for a meal at another's expense, accuse them 
of gluttony; but I have always found the Andalusians 
abstemious eaters, nor have I wondered at this, since 
Spanish food is abominable. But drunkards they 
often are, I should think as many people in pro- 
portion get drunk in Seville as in London, though it 
is only fair to add that their heads are not strong, 
and very little alcohol will produce in them an in- 
decent exhilaration. 

But if the reader, because the Andalusians are 
slothful, truthless, but moderately honest, vain, con- 
cludes that they are an unattractive people he will 
grossly err. His reasoning, that moral qualities 
make pleasant companions, is quite false ; on the con- 
trary it is rigid principles and unbending character, 
strength of will and a decided sense of right and 
wrong, which makes intercourse difficult. A sensi- 
tive conscience is no addition to the amenities of the 
dinner-table. But when a man is willing to counter 
a deadly sin with a shrug of the shoulders, when 
between white and black he can discover no insup- 
portable contrast, the probabilities are that he will 
at least humour your whims and respect your prej- 
udices. And so it is that the Andalusians make 
very agreeable acquaintance. They are free and 
amiable in their conversation, and will always say 
the thing that pleases rather than the brutal thing 
that is. They miss no opportunity to make compli- 
[8i] 



Andalusia 
ments, which they do so well that at the moment 
you are assured these flattering remarks come from 
the bottom of their hearts. Very reasonably, they 
cannot understand why you should be disagreeable 
to a man merely because you rob him; to injury, un- 
less their minds are clouded by passion, they have 
not the bad taste to add insult. Compare with these 
manners the British abhorrence of polite and com- 
plimentary speeches, especially if they happen to be 
true : the Englishman may hold you in the highest 
estimation, but wild horses will not drag from him 
an acknowledgment of the fact; whereby humanism 
and the general stock of self-esteem are notably 
diminished. 

Nothing can be more graceful than their mode of 
speech, for the very construction of the language 
conduces to courtesy. The Spaniards have also an 
oriental way of offering you things, placing them- 
selves and their houses entirely at your disposal. 
If you remark on anything of theirs they beg you 
at once to take it. If you go into a pot-house where 
a peasant is dining on a plate of ham, a few olives, 
and a glass of wine, he will ask : " Le gusta? " " Will 
you have some ? " with a little motion of handing you 
his meal. Of course it would be an outrage to 
decorum to accept these generous offers, but that is 
beside the question; for good manners are not an af- 
fair of the heart, but a complicated game to be 
learned and played on either side with due attention 

[82] 



Characteristics 

to the rules. It may be argued that such details are 
not serious; but surely for the common round of 
life politeness is more necessary than any heroic 
qualities. We need our friends' self-sacrifice once 
in a blue moon, but their courtesy every day; and for 
my own part, I would choose the companions of my 
leisure rather for their good breeding than for the 
excellence of their dispositions. 

Beside this, however, the Andalusians are much 
attached to children, and it is pleasant to see the 
real fondness which exists between various members 
of a family. One singular point I have noted, that 
although the Spanish marry for love rather than 
from convenience, a wife puts kindred before hus- 
band, her affection remaining chiefly where it was 
before marriage. But if the moralist desires yet 
more solid virtues, he need only inquire of the first 
Sevillan he meets, who will give at shortest notice, in 
choice and fluent language, a far more impressive 
list than I could ever produce. 



[83] 



XV: Don yuan "Tenor io 

On its own behalf each country seems to choose 
one man, historical or imaginary, to stand for the 
race, making as it were an incarnation of all the vir- 
tues and all the vices wherewith it is pleased to 
charge itself; and nothing really better explains the 
character of a people than their choice of a national 
hero. Fifty years ago John Bull was the typical 
Englishman. Stout, rubicund and healthy, with a 
loud voice and a somewhat aggressive manner, he 
belonged distinctly to the middle classes. He had 
a precise idea of his rights and a flattering opinion 
of his merits; he was peaceable, but ready enough to 
fight for commercial advantages, or if roused, for 
conscience sake. And when this took place, he pos- 
sessed always the comforting assurance that the 
Almighty was on his side; he put his faith without 
hesitation on the Bible and on the superiority of the 
English Nation. For foreigners he had a magnif- 
icent contempt and distinguished between them and 
monkeys only by a certain mental effort. Art he 
thought nasty, literature womanish; he was a Tory, 
middle-aged and well-to-do. 

But nowadays all that is changed; John Bull, 
having amassed great wealth, has been gathered to 

[84] 



Don Juan Tenorio 

his fathers and now disports himself in an early 
Victorian paradise furnished with horse-hair sofas 
and mahogany sideboards. His son reigns in his 
stead; and though perhaps not officially recognised 
as England's archetype, his appearance in novel and 
in drama, in the illustrated papers, in countless ad- 
vertisements, proves the reality of his sway. It is 
his image that rests in the heart of British maidens, 
his the example that British youths industriously 
follow. 

But John Bull, Junior, has added his mother's 
maiden name to his own, and remembers with 
pleasure that he belongs to a good old county fam- 
ily. He has changed his address from Bedford 
Square to South Kensington, and has been educated 
at a Public School and at a University. Young, 
tall and fair-haired, there is nothing to suggest that 
he will ever have that inelegant paunch which pre- 
vented the father, even in his loftiest moments of 
moral indignation, from being dignified. Of course 
he is a soldier, for the army is still the only profes- 
sion for a gentleman, and England's hero is that 
above all things. His morals are unexceptional, 
since to the ten commandments of Moses he has 
added the decalogue of good form. His clothes, 
whether he wears a Norfolk jacket or a frock coat, fit 
to perfection. He is a good shot, a daring rider, a 
serviceable cricketer. His heart beats with simple 
emotions, he will ever cheer at the sight of the Union 
[85] 



Andalusia 

Jack, and the strains of Rule Britannia bring patri- 
otic tears to his eyes. Of late, (like myself,) he has 
become an Imperiahst. His intentions are always 
strictly honourable, and he would not kiss the tips of 
a woman's fingers except Hymen gave him the 
strictest rights to do so. If he became enamoured 
of a lady with whom such tender sentiments should 
not be harboured, he would invariably remember 
his duty at the psychological moment, and with many 
moving expressions renounce her: in fact he Is a 
devil at renouncing women. I wonder it flatters 
them. 

Contrast with this pattern of excellence, eminently 
praiseworthy If somewhat dull, Don Juan Tenorlo, 
who stands In exactly the same relation to the Anda- 
luslans as does John Bull to the English. He is a 
worthless, heartless creature, given over to the pur- 
suit of — emotion. The main lines of the story are 
well known. The legend, so far as Seville is con- 
cerned, (industrious persons have found analogues 
throughout the world,) appears to be founded on 
fact. There actually lived a Comendador de Cala- 
trava who was killed by Don Juan after the abduc- 
tion of his daughter. The perfect amorist, accord- 
ing to the Cronica de Sevilla, was then inveigled 
into the church where lay his enemy and assassinated 
by the Franciscans, who spread the pious fiction 
that the image of his victim, descending from its 
pedestal, had itself exacted vengeance. It was an 
[86] 



Don Juan Tenorio 

unrortunate invention, for the catastrophe has 
proved a stumbling-block to all that have dealt with 
the subject. The Spaniards of Molina's day may 
not have minded the clumsy deus ex machina, but 
later writers have been able to make nothing of it. 
In Moliere's play, for instance, the grotesque statue 
is absurdly inapposite, for his Don Juan is a wit 
and a cynic, a courtier of Louis XIV., with whose 
sins avenging gods are out of all proportion. Love 
for him is an intellectual exercise and a pastime. 
" Constancy," he says, " is only good for fools. We 
owe ourselves to pretty women in general, and the 
mere fact of having met one does not absolve us 
from our duty to others. The birth of passion has 
an inexplicable charm, and the pleasure of love is in 
variety." And Zorilla, whose version is the most 
poetic of them, has succeeded in giving only a ridic- 
ulous exhibition of waxworks. 

But the monk, Tirso de Molina, who was the 
first to apply literary form to the legend, alone 
gives the character in its primitive simplicity. He 
drew the men of his time; and his compatriots, rec- 
ognising themselves, have made the work immortal. 
For Spain, at all events, the type has been irrevoc- 
ably fixed. Don Juan Tenorio was indeed a Span- 
iard of his age, a man of turbulent instincts, with a 
love of adventure and a fine contempt for danger, 
of an overwhelming pride; careful of his own hon- 
our, and careless of that of others. He looked 

[87] 



Andalusia 

upon every woman as lawful prey and hesitated at 
neither perjury nor violence to gain his ends; de- 
spair and tears left him indifferent. Love for him 
was purely carnal, with nothing of the timid flame 
of pastoral romance, nor of the chivalrous and met- 
aphysic passion of Provence ; it was a fierce, con- 
suming fire which quickly burnt itself out. He was 
a vulgar and unoriginal seducer who stole favours 
in the dark by pretending to be the lady's chosen 
lover, or induced guileless maids to trust him under 
promise of marriage, then rode away as fast as his 
horse could carry him. The monotony of his meth- 
ods and their success are an outrage on the intelli- 
gence of the sex. But for all his scofling he re- 
mained a true Catholic, devoutly believing that the 
day would come when he must account for his acts ; 
and he proposed, when too old to commit more sins, 
to repent and make his peace with the Almighty. 

It is significant that the Andalusians have thus 
chosen Don Juan Tenorio, for he is an abstract, 
with the lines somewhat subdued by the advance of 
civihsation, of the national character. For them 
his vices, his treachery, his heartlessness, have noth- 
ing repellent; nor does his inconstancy rob him of 
feminine sympathy. He is, indeed, a far greater 
favourite with the ladies than John Bull. The 
Englishman they respect, they know he will make 
a good husband and a model father; but he is too 
monogamous to arouse enthusiasm. 
[88] 



XVI: Women of Andalusia 

It is meet and just that the traveller who desires 
a closer acquaintance with the country wherein he 
sojourns than is obtained by the Cockney tripper, 
should fall in love. The advantages of this pro- 
ceeding are manifold and obvious. He will ac- 
quire the language with a more rapid facihty; he 
will look upon the land with greater sympathy and 
hence with sharper insight; and Httle particularities 
of life will become known to him, which to the dreary 
creature who surveys a strange world from the por- 
tico of an expensive hotel, must necessarily lie hid. 
If I personally did not arrive at that delectable con- 
dition the fault is with the immortal gods rather 
than with myself; for in my eagerness to learn the 
gorgeous tongue of Calderon and Cervantes, I placed 
myself purposely in circumstances where I thought 
the darts of young Cupid could never fail to miss me. 
But finally I was reduced to Ollendorf's Grammar. 
However, these are biographical details of interest 
to none but myself; they are merely to serve as a 
preface for certain observations upon the women 
whom the traveller in the evening sees hurrying 
through the Sierpes on their way home. 
[89] 



Andalusia 

Human beauty is the most arbitrary of things, 
and the Englishman, accustomed to the classic 
type of his own countrywomen, will at first be some- 
what disappointed with the excellence of Spain. It 
consists but seldom of any regularity of feature, for 
their appeal is to the amorist rather than to the 
sculptor in marble. Their red lips carry suggestions 
of burning kisses, so that his heart must be hard 
indeed who does not feel some flutterings at their 
aspect. The teeth are small, very white, regular. 
Face and body, indeed, are but the expression of a 
passionate nature. 

But when I write of Spanish women I think of 
you, Rosarito ; I find suddenly that it is no impersonal 
creature that fills my mind, but you — you ! When 
I state solemnly that their greatest beauty lies in 
their hair and eyes, it is of you I think: it is your 
dark eyes that were lustrous, soft as velvet, caress- 
ing sometimes, and sometimes sparkling with fiery 
glances. (Alas! that I can find but hackneyed 
phrases to describe those heart-disturbers!) And 
when I say that the eyebrows of a Spanish woman 
are not often so delicately pencilled as with many 
an English girl, I remember that yours were thick; 
and the luxuriance gave you a certain tropical and 
savage charm. And your hair was plentiful and 
curling, intensely black; I believe it was your great- 
est care in life. Don't you remember how often 
you explained to me that nothing was so harmful 
[90] 



Women of Andalusia 

as to brush it, and how proud you were that It hung 
in glorious locks to your very knees ? 

Hardly any girl in Seville is too poor to have a 
peinadora to do her hair ; and these women go from 
house to house, combing and arranging the coiffure 
for such infinitesimal sums as half a real, which is 
little more than a penny. 

Again I try to be impersonal. The complexion 
ranges through every quality from dark olive to 
pearly white; but yours, Rosarito, was like the very 
finest ivory, a perfect miracle of delicacy and bril- 
liance; and the blood in the cheeks shone through 
with a rich, soft red. I used to think it was a col- 
our by itself, not to be found on palettes, the carna- 
tion of your cheeks, Rosarito. And none could 
walk with such graceful dignity as you; it was a 
pleasure to watch your perfect ease, your self-com- 
mand. Your feet, I think, were somewhat long; 
but your hands were wonderful, very small, admir- 
ably modelled, with little tapering fingers, and the 
most adorable filbert nails. Don't you remember 
how I used to look at them, and turn them over and 
discuss them point by point? And If ever I kissed 
their soft, warm palms, (I think it possible, though 
I have no vivid recollection,) remember that I was 
twenty-three; and it was certainly an appropriate 
gesture in the little comedy which to our mutual 
entertainment we played so gravely. 

Now, as I write, my heart goes pit-a-pat, thinking 

[91] 



Andalusia 

of you, Rosarlto; and I'm sure that if we had over 
again that charming time, I should fall head over 
ears in love. Oh, you know we were both fibbing 
when we vowed we adored one another; I am a ro- 
mancer by profession, and you by nature. We 
parted joyously, and you had the grace not to force a 
tear, and neither of our hearts was broken. Where 
are you now, I wonder; and do you ever think of 
me? 

The whole chapter of Andalusian beauty is un- 
folded in the tobacco factory at Seville. Six thou- 
sand women work there, at little tables placed by the 
columns which uphold the roof; they are of all ages, 
of all types; plain, pretty, commonplace, beautiful; 
and ten, perhaps, are lovely. The gipsies are dis- 
appointing, not so comely as the pure Spaniards; 
and they attract only by the sphinx-like mystery of 
their copper-coloured skin, by their hard, unfath- 
omable eyes. 

The Sevillans are perhaps inchned to stoutness, 
but that is a charm in their lover's sight, and often 
have a little down on the upper lip, than which, 
when it amounts to no more than a shadow, nothing 
can be more enchanting. They look with malicious 
eyes as you saunter through room after room in 
the factory; it is quite an experience to run the 
gauntlet of their numerous tongues, making uncom- 
plimentary remarks about your person, sometimes 
[92] 



Women of Andalusia 

to your embarrassment offering you the carnation 
from their hair, or other things. Their clothes are 
suspended to the pillars, and their costume in sum- 
mer is more adapted for coolness than for the in- 
spection of decorous foreigners. They may bring 
with them babies, and many a girl will have a cradle 
by her side, which she rocks with one foot as her 
fingers work nimbly at the cigarettes. 

They are very oriental, these women with volup- 
tuous forms; they have no education, and with all 
their charm are unutterably stupid; they do not read, 
and find even newspapers tiresome ! Those whose 
circumstances do not force them to work for their 
living, love nothing better than to lie for long hours 
on a sofa, neither talking nor thinking, in easy gowns, 
untrammelled by tight-fitting things. In the morn- 
ing they put on a mantilla and go to mass, and be- 
sides, except to pay a polite visit on a friend or to 
drive in the Paseo, hardly leave the house. They 
are content with the simplest life. They adore their 
children, and willingly devote themselves entirely 
to them; they seem never to be bored. 

For them the days must come and go without dis- 
tinction. Their fleeting beauty leaves them imper- 
ceptibly; they grow fat, they grow thin, wrinkled, 
and gaunt; the years pass and their life proceeds 
without change. They do not think, they do not 
live : they merely exist, and they die, and that is the 
end of it. I suppose they are as happy as any one 
[93] 



Andalusia 

else. After all, taking it from one point of view, 
it matters very little what sort of life one leads, 
there are so many people in the world, such milhons 
have come and gone, such millions will come and go. 
If an individual makes no use of his hour what does 
it signify? He is only one among countless hordes. 
In the existence of these handsome creatures, so 
passionate and yet so apathetic, there are no partic- 
ular pleasures besides the simple joys of sense, but 
on the other hand, beyond the inevitable separations 
of death, there are no outstanding griefs. They 
propagate their species, and that, perhaps, is the 
only quite certain duty that human beings have. 



[94] 



XVII: The Dance 

Cervantes said that there was never born a Span- 
ish woman but she was made to dance ; and he might 
have added that in the South, at all events, most men 
share the enviable faculty. The dance is one of 
the most characteristic features of Andalusia, and as 
an amusement rivals in popularity even the bull- 
fight. The Sevillans dance on every possible oc- 
casion, and nothing pleases them more than the dex- 
terity of professionals. Before a company has been 
assembled half an hour some one is bound to suggest 
that a couple should show their skill; room is 
quickly made, the table pushed against the wall, 
the chairs drawn back, and they begin. Even when 
men are alone in a tavern, drinking wine, two of 
them will often enough stand up to tread a seguidilla. 
On a rainy day it is the entertainment that naturally 
recommends itself. 

Riding through the villages round Seville on 
Sundays it delighted me to see little groups making 
a circle about the house doors, in the middle of 
which were dancing two girls in bright-coloured 
clothes, with roses in their hair. A man seated on 
a broken chair was twanging a guitar, the surround- 

[95] 



Andalusia 

ers beat their hands in time and the dancers made 
music with their castanets. Sometimes on a feast- 
day, I came across a little band, arrayed in all its 
best, that had come into the country for an after- 
noon's diversion, and sat on the grass in the shade of 
summer or in the wintry sun. Whenever Andalu- 
sians mean to make merry some one will certainly 
bring a guitar, or if not the girls have their casta- 
nets; and though even these are wanting and no one 
can be induced to sing, a rhythmical clapping of hands 
will be sufficient accompaniment, and the performers 
will snap their fingers in lieu of castanets. 

It is charming then to see the girls urge one an- 
other to dance; each vows with much dramatic ges- 
ture that she cannot, calling the Blessed Virgin to 
witness that she has strained her ankle and has a 
shocking cold. But some youth springs up and vol- 
unteers, inviting a particular damsel to join him. 
She is pushed forward, and the couple take their 
places. The man carefully puts down his ciga- 
rette, jams his broad-brimmed hat on his head, but- 
tons his short coat and arches his back! The spec- 
tators cry: "Ole/" The girl passes an arranging 
hand over her hair. The measure begins. The 
pair stand opposite one another, a yard or so dis- 
tant, and foot it in accordance with one another's 
motions. It is not a thing of compHcated steps, 
but, as one might expect from its Moorish origin, 
of movements of the body. With much graceful 

[96] 



The Dance 

swaying from side to side the executants approach 
and retire, and at the middle of the dance change 
positions. It finishes with a great clapping of hands, 
the maiden sinks down among her friends and be- 
gins violently to fan herself, while her partner, with 
a great affectation of nonchalance, takes a seat and 
rehghts his cigarette. 

And in the music-halls the national dances are, 
with the national songs, the principal attraction. 
Seville possesses but one of these establishments; 
it is a queer place, merely the patio of a private 
house, with a stage at one end, in which chairs and 
tables have been placed. On holiday nights it is 
crammed with students, with countrymen and arti- 
sans, with the general riff-raff of the town, and with 
women of no particular reputation. Now and then 
appears a gang of soldiers, giving a peculiar n-ote 
with the uniformity of their brown holland suits; 
and occasionally a couple of British sailors come 
sauntering in with fine self-assurance, their fair hair 
and red cheeks contrasting with the general swart- 
ness. You pay no entrance money, but your refresh- 
ment costs a real — which Is twopence ha'penny; 
and for that you may enoy not only a cup of coffee or 
a glass of manzanilla, but an evening's entertain- 
ment. As the night wears on the heat is oven-like, 
and the air is thick and grey with the smoke of 
countless cigarettes. 

The performance consists of three " turns " only, 
[97] 



Andalusia 
and these are repeated every hour. The company 
boasts generally of a male singer, a female singer, 
and of the corps de ballet, which is made up of six 
persons. Spain is the stronghold of the out-of-date, 
and I suppose it alone preserves the stiff mushn 
ballet-skirts which delighted our fathers. To see 
half-a-dozen dancers thus attired in a remote Anda- 
lusian music-hall is so entirely unexpected that it 
quite takes the breath away. But by the time the 
traveller reaches Seville he must be used to disillu- 
sion, and he must be ingenuous indeed if he expects 
the Spaniards to have preserved their national cos- 
tume for the most national of their pastimes. Yet 
the dances are still Spanish; and even if the piano- 
forte has ousted the guitar, the castanets give, not- 
withstanding, a characteristic note which the aggres- 
sive muslin and the pink, ill-fitting tights cannot en- 
tirely destroy. 

But I remember one dancer who was really a great 
artist. She was ill-favoured, of middle age, thin; 
but every part of her was imbued with grace, ex- 
pressive, from the tips of her toes to the tips of her 
fingers. The demands of the public sometimes 
forced upon her odious ballet-skirts, sometimes she 
wasted her talent on the futilities of skirt-dancing; 
but chiefly she loved the national measures, and her 
phenomenal leanness made her only comfortable in 
the national dress. She travelled from place to 

[98] 



The Dance 

place in Spain with another woman whom she had 
taught to dance, and whose beauty she used cleverly 
as a foil to her own uncomeliness ; and so wasted 
herself in these low resorts, earning hardly sufficient 
to keep body and soul together. I wish I could re- 
member her name. 

When she began to dance you forgot her ugli- 
ness; her gaunt arms gained shape, her face was 
transfigured, her dark eyes flashed, and her mouth 
and smile said a thousand eloquent things. Even 
the nape of her neck, which in most women has no 
significance, with her was expressive. A consum- 
mate actress, she exhibited all her skill in the bolero, 
which represents a courtship; she threw aside the 
castanets and wrapped herself in a mantilla, while 
her companion, dressed as a man, was hidden in a 
capa. The two passed one another, he trying to 
see the lady's face, which she averted, but not too 
strenuously; he pursued, she fled, but not too rapidly. 
Dropping his cloak, the lover attacked with greater 
warmth, while alternately she repelled and lured 
him on. At last she too cast away the mantilla. 
They seized the castanets and danced round one an- 
other with all manner of graceful and complicated 
evolutions, making love, quarrelling, pouting, ex- 
hibiting every variety of emotion. The dance grew 
more passionate, the steps flew faster, till at last, 
with the music, both stopped suddenly dead still. 
This abrupt cessation Is one of the points most ap- 
[99] 



Andalusia 
predated by a Spanish audience. '^ Olef " they cry, 
'' bien par ado! " 

But when, unhampered by a partner, this nameless, 
exquisite dancer gave full play to her imagination, 
there was no end to the wildness of her fancy, to 
the intricacy and elaboration of her measures, to the 
gay audacity of her movements. She performed a 
hundred feats, each more difficult than the other — 
and all impossible to describe. 

Then, between Christmas and Lent, at midnight 
on Saturdays and Sundays, the tables and the chairs 
are cleared away for the masked ball; and you will 
see the latest mode of Spanish dance. The women 
are of the lowest possible class; some, with a kind 
of savage irony, disguised as nuns, others in gro- 
tesque dominos of their own devising; but most wear 
every-day clothes with great shawls draped about 
them. The men are of a corresponding station, and 
through the evening wear their broad-brimmed hats. 
On the stage is a brass band, which plays one single 
tune till daylight, and to that one single measure is 
danced — the habanera. 

In this alone may people take part as in any round 
dance. The couples hold one another in the very 
tightest embrace, the lady clasping her arms round 
her partner's neck, while he places both his about 
her waist. They go round the room very slowly, 
immediately behind one another; it is a kind of 

[lOO] 



The Dance 

straight polka, with a peculiar, rhythmic swaying 
of the body; the feet are not Kfted off the floor, and 
you do not turn at all. The highest gravity is pre- 
served throughout, and the whole performance is 
— well, very oriental. 



[lOl] 



XVIII: A Feast Day 

I arrived in Seville on the Eve of the Immaculate 
Conception. All day people had been preparing to 
celebrate the feast, decorating their houses with 
great banners of blue and white; and at night the 
silent, narrow streets had a strange appearance, 
for in every window were lighted candles, throwing 
around them a white, unusual glare; they looked 
a little like the souls of infants dead. All day the 
bells of a hundred churches had been ringing, half 
drowned by the rolling peals of the Giralda. 

It had been announced that the archbishop would 
himself officiate at the High Mass in the Blessed 
Virgin's honour; and early in the morning the ca- 
thedral steps were crowded with black-robed women, 
making their way to the great sacristy where was to 
be held the service. I joined the throng, and enter- 
ing through the darkness of the porch, was almost 
blinded by the brilliant altar, upon which stood a 
life-sized image of the Virgin, surrounded by a huge 
aureole, with great bishops, all of silver, on either 
side. It was ablaze with the light of many candles, 
so that the nave was thrown into deep shadow, and 
the kneeling women were scarcely visible. The 
[102] 



A Feast Day 

canons in the choir listlessly droned their prayers. 
At last the organ burst forth, and a long procession 
slowly came into the chapel, priests in white and 
blue, the colours of the Virgin, four bishops in 
mitres, the archbishop with his golden crozier; and 
preceding them all, in odd contrast, the beadle in 
black, with a dark periwig, bearing a silver staff. 
From the choir in due order they returned to the 
altar, headed this time by three pairs of acolytes, 
bearing great silver candlesticks, and by incense- 
burners, that filled the church with rich perfume. 

When the Mass was finished, a young dark man in 
copious robes of violet ascended the pulpit and mut- 
tered a text. He waited an instant to collect him- 
self, looking at the congregation; then turning to 
the altar began a passionate song of praise to the 
Blessed Virgin, unsoiled by original sin. He de- 
scribed her as in a hundred pictures the great painter 
of the Immaculate Conception has portrayed her — 
a young and graceful maid, clothed in a snowy gown 
of ample folds, with an azure cloak, a maid mysteri- 
ously pure; her hair, floating on the shoulders in 
luxurious ringlets, was an aureole more glorious than 
the silver rays which surrounded the great image; 
her dark eyes, with their languid lashes, her mouth, 
with the red lips, expressed a beautiful and immac- 
ulate virtue. It might have been some earthly 
woman of whom the priest spoke, one of those Anda- 
lusians that knelt below him, flashing quick glances 
[103] 



Andalusia 
at the gallant who negligently leaned against a 
pillar. 

The archbishop sat on his golden throne — a thin, 
small man with a wrinkled face, with dead and list- 
less eyes; in his gorgeous vestments he looked hardly 
human, he seemed a puppet, sitting stilly. At the 
end of the sermon he went back to the altar, and 
in his low, broken voice read the prayers. And then 
turning towards the great congregation he gave the 
plenary absolution, for which the Pope's Bull had 
been read from the pulpit steps. 

In the afternoon, when the sun was going down 
behind the Guadalquivir, over the plain, I went again 
to the cathedral. The canons in the choir still 
droned their chant in praise of the Blessed Virgin, 
and in the greater darkness the altar shone more 
magnificently. The same procession filed through 
the nave, some priests were in black, some in violet, 
some in the Virgin's colours; but this time the arch- 
bishop wore gorgeous robes of scarlet, and as he 
knelt at the altar his train spread to the chancel 
steps. From the side appeared ten boys and knelt 
before the altar, and stood in two lines facing one 
another. They were dressed like pages of the 
seventeenth century, with white stockings and 
breeches, and a doublet of blue and silver, holding 
In their hands hats with long feathers. The arch- 
bishop, kneeling in front of the throne, buried his 
face in his hands. 

[104] 



A Feast Day 

A soft melody, played by violins and 'cellos, broke 
the silence, and presently the ten pages began to sing; 

hos cielos y la tierra alaben al Senor 

Con imnos de alabanza que inftamen al Seiior. 

It was a curious, old-fashioned music, reminding 
one a little of the quaint harmonies of Gluck. Then, 
putting on their hats, the pages danced, continuing 
their song; they wound in and out of one another, 
gravely footing it, swaying to and fro with the music 
very slowly. The measure was performed with the 
utmost reverence. Now and then the chorus came, 
and the fresh boys' voices, singing in unison, filled 
the church with delightful melody. And still the 
old archbishop prayed, his face buried in his hands. 

The boys ceased to sing, but continued the dance, 
marking the time now with castanets, and the mun- 
dane instrument contrasted strangely with the glit- 
tering altar and with the kneeling priests. I won- 
dered of what the archbishop thought, kneeling so 
humbly — of the boys dancing before the altar, fresh 
and young? Was he thinking of their white souls 
darkening with the sins of the world, or of the 
troubles, the disilluslonments of life, and the decrepi- 
tude? Or was it of himself — did he think of his 
own youth, so long past, so hopelessly gone, or did 
he think that he was old and worn, and of the dark 
journey before him, and of the light that seemed so 
distant? Did he regret his beautiful Seville with 
[los] 



Andalusia 

the blue sky, and the orange-trees bowed down with 
their golden fruit? He seemed so small and weak, 
overwhelmed in his gorgeous robes. 

Again the ten boys repeated their song and dance 
and their castanets, and with a rapid genuflection 
disappeared. 

The archbishop rose painfully from his knees and 
ascended to the altar. A priest held open a book 
before him, and another hghted the printed page 
with a candle; he read out a prayer. Then, kneel- 
ing down, he bent very low, as though he felt him- 
self unworthy to behold the magnificence of the 
Queen of Heaven. The people fell to their knees, 
and a man's voice burst forth — Ave Maria, gratia 
plena; waves of passionate sound floated over the 
worshippers, upwards, towards heaven. And from 
the Giralda, the Moorish tower, the Christian bells 
rang joyfully. The archbishop turned towards the 
people; and when in his thin, broken voice he gave 
the benediction, one thought that no man in his heart 
felt such humility as the magnificent prince of the 
Church, Don Marcelo Spinola y Maestre, Arch- 
bishop of Seville. 

The people flocked out quickly, and soon only a 
few devout penitents remained. A priest came, wav- 
ing censers before the altar, and thick volumes of 
perfume ascended to the Blessed Virgin, He dis- 
appeared, and one by one the candles were extin- 
guished. The night crept silently along the church, 
[io6] 



A Feast Day 

and the silver image sank into the darkness; at last 
two candles only were left on the altar, high up, 
shining dimly. 

Outside the sky was still blue, bespattered with 
countless stars. 

Note. — I believe there is no definite explanation of this cere- 
mony, and the legend told me by an ancient priest that it was 
invented during the Moorish dominion so that Christian services 
might be held under cover of a social gathering — intruding 
Muslims would be told merely that people were there assembled 
to see boys dance and to listen to their singing — is more pictur- 
esque than probable. Rather does it seem analogous with the 
leaping of David the King before the Ark of Jehovah, when he 
danced before the Lord with all his might, girt with a linen 
Ephod; and this, if I may hazard an opinion, was with a view 
to amuse a deity apt to be bored or languid, just as Nautch girls 
dance to this day before the idols of the Hindus, and tops are 
spun before Krishna to divert him. 



[107] 



XIX: The Giralda 

The Christian bells rang joyfully from the Moor- 
ish tower, the great old bells christened with holy 
oil, el Cantor the Singer, la Gorda the Great, San 
Miguel. I climbed the winding passage till I came 
to the terrace where stood the ringers, and as they 
pulled their ropes the bells swung round on their 
axles, completing a circle, with deafening clamour. 
The din was terrific, so that the solid masonry ap- 
peared to shake, and I felt the vibrations of the sur- 
rounding air. It was a strange sensation to shout 
as loud as possible and hear no sound issue from my 
mouth. 

The Giralda, with Its Moorish base and its Chris- 
tian belfry, is a symbol of Andalusia. There is in 
the Ayuntamiento an old picture of the Minaret 
built by Djabir the Moor, nearly one hundred feet 
shorter than the completed tower, but surmounted 
by a battlemented platform on which are huge brazen 
balls and an iron standard. These were overthrown 
by an earthquake, and later, when the discoveries of 
Christopher Columbus had poured unmeasured 
riches into Seville, the Chapter commissioned Her- 
nan Ruiz to add a belfry to the Moorish base. 
[io8] 



The Giralda 

Hernan Ruiz nearly ruined the mosque at Cordova, 
but here he was entirely successful. Indeed it is 
extraordinary that the two parts should be joined 
in such admirable harmony. It is impossible to give 
in words an idea of the slender grace of the Giralda, 
it does not look a thing of bricks and mortar, it is 
so straight and light that it reminds one vaguely of 
some beautiful human thing. The great height is 
astonishing, there is no buttress or projection to 
break the very long straight line as it rises, with a 
kind of breathless speed, to the belfry platform. 
And then the renaissance building begins, ascending 
still more, a sort of filigree work, excessively rich, 
and elegant beyond all praise. It is surmounted by 
a female figure of bronze, representing Faith and 
veering with every breeze, and the artist has sur- 
rounded his work with the motto: Nomen Domini 
Fortissima Turris. 

But the older portion gains another charm from 
the Moorish windows that pierce it, one above the 
other, with horseshoe arches; and from the ara- 
besque network with which the upper part is dia- 
pered, a brick trellis-work against the brick walls, 
of the most graceful and delicate intricacy. The 
Giralda is almost toylike in the daintiness of its deco- 
ration. Notwithstanding its great size it is a mas- 
terpiece of exquisite proportion. At night it stands 
out with strong lines against the bespangled sky, and 
the lights of the watchers give it a magic appearance 
[109] 



Andalusia 

of some lacelike tower of imagination; but on high 
festivals it is lit with countless lamps, and then, as 
Richard Ford puts it, hangs from the dark vault of 
heaven like a brilliant chandeher. 

I looked down at Seville from above. A Spanish 
town wears always its most picturesque appearance 
thus seen, but it is never different; the patios glaring 
with whitewash, the roofs of brown and yellow tiles, 
and the narrow streets, winding in unexpected direc- 
tions, narrower than ever from such a height and 
dark with shade, so that they seem black rivulets 
gliding stealthily through the whiteness. Looking 
at a northern city from a tall church tower all things 
are confused with one another, the slate roofs join 
together till it is like a huge uneven sea of grey; 
but in Seville the atmosphere is so limpid, the colour 
so brilliant, that every house is clearly separated 
from its neighbour, and sometimes there appears to 
be between them a preternatural distinctness. Each 
stands independently of any other; you might sup- 
pose yourself in a strange city of the Arabian Nights 
where a great population lived in houses crowded 
together, but invisibly, so that each person fancied 
himself in isolation. 

Immediately below was the Cathedral and to re- 
mind you of Cordova, the Court of Oranges; but 
here was no sunny restfulness, nor old-world quiet. 
The Court is gloomy and dark, and the trim rows of 
orange-trees contrast oddly with the grey stone of 
[no] 



The Giralda 

the Cathedral, its huge porches, and the flamboyant 
exuberance of its decoration. The sun never shines 
in it and no fruit splash the dark foliage with gold. 
You do not think of the generations of priests who 
have wandered in it on the summer evenings, bask- 
ing away their peaceful lives in the sunshine; but 
rather of the busy merchants who met there in the 
old days when it was still the exchange of Seville, 
before the Lonja was built, to discuss the war with 
England, or the fate of ships bringing gold from 
America. At one end of the court is an old stone 
pulpit from which preached St. Francis of Borga 
and St. Vincent Ferrer and many an unknown monk 
besides. Then it was thronged with multi-coloured 
crowds, with townsmen, soldiers and great noblemen, 
when the faith was living and strong; and the 
preacher, with all the gesture and the impassioned 
rhetoric of a Spaniard, poured out burning words 
of hate for Jew and Moor and Heretic, so that the 
listeners panted and a veil of blood passed before 
their eyes; or else uttered so eloquent a song in 
praise of the Blessed Virgin, immaculately conceived, 
that strong men burst into tears at the recital of her 
perfect beauty. 



[Ill] 



XX: The Cathedral of Seville 

Your first impression when you walk round the 
cathedral of Seville, noting with dismay the crushed 
cupolas and unsightly excrescences, the dinginess of 
colour, is not enthusiastic. It was built by German 
architects without a thought for the surrounding 
houses, brilliantly whitewashed, and the blue sky, 
and it proves the incongruity of northern art in a 
southern country; but even lowering clouds and mist 
could lend no charm to the late Gothic of S>anta 
Maria de la Sede. 

The interior fortunately is very different. Not- 
withstanding the Gothic groining, as you enter from 
the splendid heat of noonday, (in the Plaza del 
Triunfo the sun beats down and the houses are more 
dazzling than snow,) the effect is thoroughly and 
delightfully Spanish. Light is very fatal to devo- 
tion and the Spaniards have been so wise as to make 
their churches extremely dark. At first you can see 
nothing. Incense floats heavily about you, filling the 
air, and the coolness is like a draught of fresh, per- 
fumed water. But gradually the church detaches 
itself from the obscurity and you see great columns, 
immensely lofty. The spaces are large and simple, 

[112] 



The Cathedral of Seville 

giving an impression of vast room; and the choir, 
walled up on three sides, in the middle of the nave 
as in all Spanish cathedrals, by obstructing the view 
gives an appearance of almost unlimited extent. To 
me it seems that in such a place it is easier to com- 
prehend the majesty wherewith man has equipped 
himself. Science offers only thoughts of human in- 
significance; the vastness of the sea, the terror of the 
mountains, emphasise the fact that man is of no 
account, ephemeral as the leaves of summer. But 
in those bold aisles, by the pillars rising with such a 
confident pride towards heaven, it is almost impos- 
sible not to feel that man indeed is god-like, lord of 
the earth; and that the great array of nature is 
builded for his purpose. 

Typically Spanish also is the decoration, and very 
rich. The choir-stalls are of carved wood, florid 
and exuberant like the Spanish imagination; the 
altars gleam with gold; pictures of saints are framed 
by golden pillars carved with hugh bunches of grapes 
and fruit and fantastic leaves. I was astounded at 
the opulence of the treasure; there were gorgeous 
altars of precious metal, great saints of silver, cas- 
kets of gold, monstrances studded with rare stones, 
crosses and crucifixes. The vestments were of un- 
imaginable splendour: there were two hundred copes 
of all ages and of every variety, fifty of each colour, 
white for Christmas and Easter, red for Corpus 
Chrlsti, blue for the Immaculate Conception, violet 
[113] 



Andalusia 

for Holy Week; there were the special copes of the 
Primate, copes for officiating bishops, copes for dig- 
nitaries from other countries and dioceses. They 
were of the richest velvet and satin, heavily em- 
broidered with gold, many with saints worked in silk, 
so heavy that it seemed hardly possible for a man to 
bear them. 

In the Baptistery, filling it with warm light, is the 
San Antonio of Murillo, than which no picture gives 
more intensely the religious emotion. The saint, tall 
and meagre, beautiful of face, looks at the Divine 
Child hovering in a golden mist with an ecstasy that 
is no longer human. 

It is interesting to consider whether an artist need 
feel the sentiment he desires to convey. Certainly 
many pictures have been painted under the influence 
of profound feeling which leave the spectator en- 
tirely cold, and it is probable enough that the early 
Itahans felt few of the emotions which their pictures 
call forth. We know that the masterpieces of Peru- 
gino, so moving, so instinct with religious tender- 
ness, were very much a matter of pounds, shillings 
and pence. But Luis de Vargas, on the other hand, 
daily humbled himself by scourging and by wearing 
a hair shirt, and Vicente Joanes prepared himself 
for a new picture by communion and confession; so 
that it is impossible to wonder at the rude and sav- 
age ardour of their work. And the impression that 
may be gathered of Murillo from his pictures is 

[114] 



The Cathedral of Seville 

borne out by the study of his grave and simple life. 
He had not the turbulent piety of the other two, but 
a calm and sweet devotion, which led him to spend 
long hours in church, meditating. He, at any rate, 
felt all that he expressed. 

I do not know a church that gives the religious 
sentiment more completely than Seville Cathedral. 
The worship of the Spaniards is sombre, full- 
blooded, a thing of dark rich colours; it requires the 
heaviness of incense and that overloading of rococo 
decoration. It is curious that notwithstanding their 
extreme similarity to the Neapolitans, the Andalu- 
sians should in their faith differ so entirely. Of 
course, in Southern Italy religion is as full of super- 
stition — an adoration of images in which all sym- 
bolism is lost and only the gross idol remains; but 
it is a gayer and a lighter thing than in Spain. Most 
characteristic of this is the difference between the 
churches; and with Santa Maria, de la Sede may well 
be contrasted the Neapolitan Santa Chiara, with its 
great windows, so airy and spacious, sparkling with 
white and gold. The paintings are almost frolic- 
some. It is like a ballroom, a typical place of wor- 
ship for a generation that had no desire to pray, 
but strutted in gaudy silks and ogled over pretty 
fans, pretending to discuss the latest audacity of 
Monsieur Arouet de Voltaire. 



[115] 



XXI: The Hospital of Charity 

The Spaniards possess to the fullest degree the art 
of evoking devout emotions, and in their various 
churches may be experienced every phase of religious 
feeling. After the majestic size and the solemn 
mystery of the Cathedral, nothing can come as a 
greater contrast than the Church of the Hermandad 
de la Caredad. It was built by don Miguel de 
Manara, who rests in the chancel, with the inscrip- 
tion over him : " A qui jacen los huesos y cehizas del 
peor hombre que ha habido en el mundo; ruegan por 
el " — " Here lie the bones and ashes of the worst 
man that has ever been in the world; pray for him." 
But like all Andalusians he was a braggart; for a 
love of chocolate, which appears to have been his. 
besetting sin, is insufficient foundation for such a 
vaunt: a vice of that order is adequately punished 
by the corpulence it must occasion. However, 
legend, representing don Miguel as the most disso-^ 
lute of libertines, is more friendly. The grave sister 
who escorts the visitor relates that one day in church 
don Miguel saw a beautiful nun, and undaunted by 
her habit, made amorous proposals. She did not 
speak, but tured to look at him, whereupon he saw 
[ii6] 



The Hospital of Charity 

the side of her face which had been hidden from his 
gaze, and it was eaten away by a foul and loathsome 
disease, so that it seemed more horrible than the 
face of death. The gallant was so terrified that 
he fainted, and afterwards the face haunted him, 
the face of matchless beauty and of revolting decay, 
so that he turned from the world. He devoted his 
fortune to rebuilding the hospital and church of the 
Brotherhood of Charity, whose chief office it was to 
administer the sacraments to those condemned to 
death and provide for their burial, and was event- 
ually received into their Order. 

It was in the seventeenth century that Maiiara 
built his church, and consequently rococo holds sway 
with all its fantasies. It is small, without aisles or 
chapels, and the morbid opulence of the decoration 
gives it a peculiar character. The walls are lined 
with red damask, and the floor carpeted with a heavy 
crimson carpet; it gives the sensation of a hothouse, 
or, with its close odours, of a bedchamber trans- 
formed into a chapel for the administration of the 
last sacrament. The atmosphere is unhealthy: one 
pants for breath. 

At one end, taking up the entire wall, is a reredos 
by Pedro Roldan, of which the centerpiece is an 
elaborate " Deposition in the Tomb," with numer- 
ous figures coloured to the Hfe. It is very fine In 
its mingling of soft, rich hues and flamboyant real- 
ism. The artist has revelled in the opportunity for 
[117] 



Andalusia 

anguish of expression that his subject afforded, but 
has treated it with such a passionate seriousness that, 
in his grim, fierce way, he does not fail to be im- 
pressive. The frame is of twisted golden pillars, 
supported by little naked angels, and decorated with 
grapes and vine-leaves. Above and at the sides are 
great saints in carved wood, and angels with floating 
drapery. 

Murillo was on terms of intimacy with don Miguel 
de Manara, and like him a member of the Herman- 
dad. For his friend he painted some of his most 
famous pictures, which by the subdued ardour of 
their colour, by their opulent tones, harmonise most 
exquisitely with the church. Marshal Soult, with a 
fine love of art that was profitable, carried off sev- 
eral of them, and their empty frames stare at one 
still. But before that, when they were all in place, 
the effect must have been of unique magnificence. 

It must be an extraordinary religion that flourishes 
in such a place, an artificial faith that needs heat like 
tropical plants, that desires unnatural vows. It 
breathes of neurotic emotions with its damask-cov- 
ered, walls, with its carpet that deadens the footfall, 
its sombre, gorgeous pictures. The sweet breeze of 
heaven never enters there, nor the sunlight; the air 
is languid with incense ; one is oppressed by a strange, 
heavy silence. In such a church sins must be fos- 
tered for the morbid pleasure of confession. One 
can imagine that the worshippers in that overloaded 
[ii8] 



The Hospital of Charity 

atmosphere would see strange visions, voluptuous 
and mystical; the Blessed Mary and the Saints might 
gain visible and palpable flesh, and the devil would 
not be far off. There the gruesome imaginings of 
Valdes Leal are a fitting decoration. Every one 
knows that grim picture of a bishop in episcopal 
robes, eaten by worms, his flesh putrefying, which 
led Murillo to say: "Leal, you make me hold my 
nose," and the other answered: "You have taken 
all the flesh and left me nought but the bones." 
Elsewhere, by the same master, there is a painting 
that suggests, with greater poignancy to my mind 
because less brutally, the thoughts evoked by the 
more celebrated work, and since it seems to complete 
the ideas awakened by this curious chapel, I men- 
tion it here. 

It represents a priest at the altar, saying his mass, 
and the altar after the Spanish fashion is sumptuous 
with gilt and florid carving. He wears a magnifi- 
cent cope and a surplice of exquisite lace, but he 
wears them as though their weight were more than 
he could bear; and in the meagre, trembling hands, 
and in the white, ashen face, in the dark hollowness 
of the eyes and in the sunken cheeks, there is a bodily 
corruption that is terrifying. The priest seems to 
hold together with difficulty the bonds of the flesh, 
but with no eager yearning of the soul to burst its 
prison, only with despair; it is as if the Lord Al- 
mighty had forsaken him, and the high heavens were 
["9] 



Andalusia 

empty of their solace. All the beauty of life ap- 
pears forgotten, and there is nothing in the world 
but decay. A ghastly putrefaction has attacked al- 
ready the living man; the worms of the grave, the 
piteous horror of mortality, and the darkness before 
him offer nought but fear, and what soul is there to 
rise again ! Beyond, dark night is seen and a turbu- 
lent sea, the dark night of the soul of which the 
mystics write, and the troublous sea of life whereon 
there is no refuge for the weary and the sick at 
heart. 

Then, if you would study yet another phase of the 
religious sentiment, go to the Museo, where are the 
fine pictures that Murillo painted for the Capuchin 
Monastery. You will see all the sombreness of 
Spanish piety, the savage faith, dissolved into in- 
effable love. Religion has become a wonderful ten- 
derness, in which passionate human affection is in- 
extricably mingled with god-like adoration. Mur- 
illo, these sensual forms quivering with life, brought 
the Eternal down to earth, and gave terrestrial 
ardour to the apathy of an impersonal devotion; 
that, perhaps, is why to women he has always been 
the most fascinating of painters. In the Madonna 
de la Servilleta — painted on a napkin for the cook 
of the monastery — the child is a simple, earthly in- 
fant, fresh and rosy, with wide-open, wondering 
[120] 



The Hospital of Charity 

eyes and not a trace of immortality. I myself saw 
a common woman of the streets stand before this 
picture with tears running down her cheelcs. 

" Corazon de mi alma! " she said, " Heart of my 
soul! I could cover his little body with kisses." 

She smiled, but could hardly restrain her sobs. 
The engrossing love of a mother for her child 
seemed joined in miraculous union with the worship 
of a mortal for his God. 

Murillo had neither the power nor the desire to 
idealise his models. The saints of these great pic- 
tures, St. Francis of Assisi, St. Felix of Cantalicio, 
St, Thomas of Villanueva, are monks and beggars 
such as may to this day be seen in the streets of 
Seville. St. Felix is merely an old man with hollow 
cheeks and a grey, ragged beard; but yet as he clasps 
the child in his arms with eager tenderness, he is 
transfigured by a divine ecstasy: his face is radiant 
with the most touching emotion. And St. Antony 
of Padua, in another picture, worships the infant 
God with a mystic adoration, which, notwithstanding 
the realism of the presentment, lifts him far, far 
above the earth. 



[121] 



XXII: Gaol 

I was curious to see the prison In Seville. Grue- 
some tales had been told me of Its filth and horror, 
and the wretched condition of the prisoners; I had 
even heard that from the street you might see them 
pressing against the barred windows with arms 
thrust through, begging the passer-by for money or 
bread. Mediaeval stories recurred to my mind and 
the clank of chains trailed through my imagination. 

I arranged to be conducted by the prison doctor, 
and one morning soon after five set out to meet 
him. My guide informed me by a significant ges- 
ture that his tendencies were — bibulous, and our 
meeting-place was a tavern; but when we arrived 
they told us that don Felipe — such was his name — 
had been, taken his morning dram and gone; how- 
ever, if we went to another inn we should doubtless 
find him. But there we heard he had not yet ar- 
rived, he was not due till half-past five. To pass 
the time we drank a mouthful of aguardiente and 
smoked a cigarette, and eventually the medico was 
espied in the distance. We went towards him — a 
round, fat person with a red face and a redder nose, 
somewhat shabbily dressed. 
[122] 



Gaol 

He looked at me pointedly and said: 

" I'm dry. Vengo seco." 

It was a hint not to be neglected, and we returned 
to the tavern where don Felipe had his nip. 

" It's very good for the stomach," he assured me. 

We sallied forth together, and as we walked he 
told me the number of prisoners, the sort of crimes 
for which they were detained — ranging from man- 
slaughter to petty larceny — and finally, details of 
his own career. He was an intelligent man, and 
when we came to the prison door insisted on drink- 
ing my health. 

The prison is an old convent, and it is a little 
startling to see the church facade, with a statue of 
the Madonna over the center porch. At the steps 
a number of women stood ^vaiting with pots and 
jars and handkerchiefs full of food for their rela- 
tives within; and when the doctor appeared several 
rushed up to ask about a father or a son that lay 
sick. We went in and there was a melodramatic 
tinkling of keys and an unlocking of heavy doors. 

The male prisoners, the adults, were in the patio 
of the convent, where in olden days the nuns had 
wandered on summer evenings, watering their roses. 
The iron door was opened and shut behind us; there 
was a movement of curiosity at the sight of a 
stranger, and many turned to look at me. Such as 
had illnesses came to the doctor, and he looked at 
their tongues and felt their pulse, giving directions 
[123] 



Andalusia 

to an assistant who stood beside him with a note- 
book. Don Felipe was on excellent terms with his 
patients, laughing and joking; a malingerer asked if 
he could not have a little wine because his throat 
was sore; the doctor jeered and the man began to 
laugh ; they bandied repartees with one another. 

There were about two hundred in the patio, and 
really they did not seem to have so bad a time. 
There was one large group gathered round-ajiian 
who read a newspaper aloud; it was Monday morn- 
ing, and all listened intently to the account of a 
bull-fight on the previous day, bursting into a little 
cry of surprise and admiration on hearing that the 
matador had been caught and tossed. Others lay 
by a pillar playing draughts for matches, while half 
a dozen more eagerly watched, giving unsolicited ad- 
vice with much gesticulation. The draught-board 
consisted of little squares drawn on the pavement 
with chalk, and the pieces were scraps of white and 
yellow paper. One man sat cross-legged by a col- 
umn busily rolling cigarettes; he had piles of them 
by his side arranged in packets, which he sold at one 
penny each; it was certainly an Illegal offence, be- 
cause the sale of tobacco Is a government monopoly, 
but If you cannot break the laws in prison where can 
you break them? Others occupied themselves by 
making baskets or nets. But the majority did noth- 
ing at all, standing about, sitting when they could, 
with the eternal cigarette between their lips; and 

[124] 



Gaol 

the more energetic watched the blue smoke curl Into 
the air. Altogether a very happy family! 

Nor did they seem really very criminal, more 
especially as they wore no prison uniform, but their 
own clothes. I saw no difference between them and 
the people I met casually in the street. They were 
just very ordinary citizens, countrymen smelling of 
the soil, labouring men, artisans. Their misfortune 
had been only to make too free a use of their long 
curved knives or to be discovered taking something 
over which another had prior claims. But in Anda- 
lusia every one is potentially as criminal, which is 
the same as saying that these jail-birds were esti- 
mable persons whom an unkind fate and a mistaken 
idea of justice had separated for a little while from 
their wives and families. 

I saw two only whose aspect was distinctly vicious. 
One was a tall fellow with shifty eyes, a hard thin 
mouth, a cruel smile, and his face was really hor- 
rible. I asked the doctor why he was there. Don 
Felipe, without speaking, made the peculiar motion 
of the fingers which signifies robbery, and the man 
seeing him repeated it with a leer. I have seldom 
seen a face that was so utterly repellent, so de- 
praved and wicked: I could not get it out of my 
head, and for a long time saw before me the crafty 
eyes and the grinning mouth. Obviously the man 
was a criminal born who would start thieving as 
soon as he was out of prison, hopelessly and utterly 

[125] 



Andalusia 

corrupt But it was curious that his character 
should be marked so plainly on his face; it was a 
danger-signal to his fellows, and one would have 
thought the suspicion it aroused must necessarily 
keep him virtuous. It was a countenance that would 
make a man instinctively clap his hand to his pocket. 

The other was a Turk, a huge creature, with dark 
scowling face and prominent brows; he made a 
singular figure in his bright fez and baggy breeches, 
looking at his fellow prisoners with a frown of 
hate. 

But the doctor had finished seeing his patients and 
the iron door was opened for us to go out. We 
went upstairs to the hospital, a long bare ward, ter- 
ribly cheerless. Six men, perhaps, lay in bed, 
guarded by two warders; one old fellow with rheu- 
matism groaning in agony, two others dazed and 
very still, with high fever. We walked round 
quickly, don Felipe as before mechanically looking 
at their tongues and feeling their pulse, speaking a 
word to the assistant and moving on. The win- 
dows were shut and there was a horrid stench of 
illness and drugs and antiseptics. 

We went through long corridors to the female 
side, and meanwhile the assistant told the doctor 
that during the night a woman had been confined. 
Don Felipe sat down in an office to write a certifi- 
cate. 

" What a nuisance these women are ! " he said. 
[126] 



Gaol 

"Why can't they wait till they get out of prison? 
How is it?" 

" It was still-born." 

" Pero, hombre," said the doctor crossly. " Why 
didn't you tell me that before ? Now I shall have to 
write another certificate. This one's no good." 

He tore it up and painfully made out a second 
with the slow laborious writing of a man unused to 
holding a pen. 

Then we marched on and came to another smaller 
patio where the females were. They were compara- 
tively few, not more than twenty or thirty ; and when 
we entered a dark inner-room to see the woman who 
was ill they all trooped in after us — all but one. 
They stood round eagerly telling us of the occur- 
rence. 

" Don't make such a noise, por Diosf I can't 
hear myself speak," said the doctor. 

The woman was lying on her back with flushed 
cheeks, her eyes staring glassily. The doctor asked 
a question, but she did not answer. She began to 
cry, sobbing from utter weakness in a silent, unre- 
strained way. On a table near her, hidden by a 
cloth, lay the dead child. 

We went out again into the patio. The sun was 
higher now and it was very warm, the blue sky shone 
above us without a cloud. The prisoners returned 
to their occupations. One old hag was doing a 
younger woman's hair; I noticed that even for Spain 
[127] 



Andalusia 

it was beautiful, very thick, curling, and black as 
night. The girl held a carnation in her hand to 
put in front of the comb when the operation was 
completed. Another woman suckled a baby, and 
several tiny children were playing about happily, 
while their mothers chatted to one another, knit- 
ting. 

But there was one, markedly different from the 
others, who sat alone taking no notice of the scene. 
It was she who remained in the patio when the rest 
followed us into the sick room, a gipsy, tall and 
gaunt, with a skin of the darkest yellow. Her hair 
was not elaborately arranged as that of her com- 
panions, but plainly done, drawn back stiffly from 
the forehead. She sat there, erect and motionless, 
looking at the ground with an unnatural stare, silent. 
They told me she never spoke a word nor paid atten- 
tion to the women in the court. She might have 
been entirely alone. She never altered her posi- 
tion, but sat there, sphinx-like, in that attitude of 
stony grief. She was a stranger among the rest, and 
her bronzed face, her silence gave a weird impres- 
sion; she seemed to recall the burning deserts of the 
East and an endless past. 

At last we came out, and the heavy iron door was 
closed behind us. What a relief it was to be in the 
street again, to see the sun and the trees, and to 
breathe the free air ! A cart went by with a great 
racket, drawn by three mules, and the cries of the 

[128] 



Gaol 

driver as he cracked his whip were almost musical; 
a train of donkeys passed; a man trotted by on a 
brown shaggy cob, his huge panniers filled with 
glowing vegetables, green and red, and in a corner 
was a great bunch of roses. I took long breaths 
of the free air, I shook myself to get rid of those 
prison odours. 

I offered don Felipe refreshment and we repaired 
to a dram-shop immediately opposite. Two women 
were standing there. 

" Ole! " said the doctor to an old toothless hag 
with a vicious leer. "What are you doing here? 
You've not been in for some time." 

She laughed and explained that she was come to 
fetch her friend, a young woman, who had been 
released that morning. The doctor nodded to her, 
asking how long she had been in gaol. 

" Two years and nine months," she said. 

And she began to laugh hysterically with tears 
streaming down her cheeks. 

" I don't know what I'm doing," she cried. " I 
can't understand it." 

She looked into the street with wild, yearning 
eyes ; everything seemed to her strange and new. 

" I haven't seen a tree for nearly three years," she 
sobbed. 

But the hag was pressing the doctor to drink with 
her; he accepted without much hesitation, and gal- 
lantly proposed her health. 
[129] 



Andalusia 

'What are you going to do?" he said to the 
younger woman, she was hardly more than a girl. 
" You'd better not hang about in Seville or you'll 
get into trouble again." 

" Oh, no," she said, " I'm going to my village — 
mi pueblo — this afternoon. I want to see my hus- 
band and my child." 

Don Felipe turned to me and asked what I thought 
of the Seville prison. I made some complimentary 
reply. 

" Are English prisons like that? " he asked. 

I said I did not think so. 

"Are they better?" 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

" I'm told," he said, " that two years' hard labour 
in an EngHsh prison kills a man." 

" The English are a great nation," I replied. 

" And a humane one," he added, with a bow and 
a smile. 

I bade him good-morning. 



[130] 



XXIII: Before the Bull-fight 

If all Andaluslans are potential gaol-birds they 
are also potential bull-fighters. It is impossible for 
foreigners to realise how firmly the love of that pas- 
time is engrained in all classes. In other countries 
the gift that children love best is a box of soldiers, 
but in Spain it is a miniature ring with tin bulls, 
picadors on horseback and toreros. From their 
earliest youth boys play at bull-fighting, one of them 
taking the bull's part and charging with the move- 
ments pecuHar to that animal, while the rest make 
passes with their coats or handkerchiefs. Often, 
to increase the excitement of the game, they have 
two horns fixed on a piece of wood. You will see 
them playing it at every street corner all day long, 
and no amusement can rival it; with the result that 
by the time a boy is fifteen he has acquired consid- 
erable skill in the exercise, and a favourite entertain- 
ment then is to hire a bull-calf for an afternoon and 
practise with it. Every urchin in Andalusia knows 
the names of the most prominent champions and can 
tell you their merits. 

The bull-fight is the national spectacle; it excites 
Spaniards as nothing else can, and the death of a 

[131] 



Andalusia 

famous torero is more tragic than the loss of a col- 
ony. Seville looks upon itself as the very home and 
centre of the art. The good king Ferdinand VII. 
— as precious a rascal as ever graced a throne — 
founded in Seville the first academy for the cultiva- 
tion of tauromachy, and buil-fighters swagger 
through the Sierpes in great numbers and the most 
faultless costume. 

There are only five great bull-fights in a year at 
Seville, namely, on Easter day, on the three days of 
the fair, and on Corpus Christi. But during the 
summer novilladas are held every Sunday, with bulls 
of three years old and young fighters. Long before 
an important corrida there is quite an excitement in 
the town. Gaudy bills are posted on the walls with 
the names of the performers and the proprietor of 
the bulls; crowds stand round reading them breath- 
lessly, discussing with one another the chances of the 
fray; the papers give details and forecasts as in 
England they do for the better cause of horse-rac- 
ing! And the journeyings of the matador are an- 
nounced as exactly as with us the doings of the nobil- 
ity and gentry. 

The great matador, Mazzantini or Guerrita, ar- 
rives the day before the fight, and perhaps takes a 
walk in the Sierpes. People turn to look at him 
and acquaintances shake his hand, pleased that all 
the world may know how friendly they are with so 
great a man. The hero himself is calm and gra- 
[132] 



Before the Bull-fight 

clous. He feels himself a person of merit, and 
cannot be unconscious that he has a fortune of sev- 
eral million pesetas bringing in a reasonable inter- 
est. He talks with ease and assurance, often con- 
descends to joke, and elegantly waves his hand, 
sparkling with diamonds of great value. 

Many persons have described a bull-fight, but 
generally their emotions have overwhelmed them so 
that they have seen only part of orte performance, 
and consequently have been obliged to use an indig- 
nant imagination to help out a very faulty recollec- 
tion. This is my excuse for giving one more account 
of an entertainment which can in no way be defended. 
It is doubtless vicious and degrading; but with the 
constant danger, the skill displayed, the courage, the 
hair-breadth escapes, the catastrophes, it is foolish 
to deny that any pastime can be more exciting. 

The English humanity to animals is one of the 
best traits of a great people, and they justly thank 
God they are not as others are. Can anything more 
horrid be imagined than to kill a horse in the bull- 
ring, and can any decent hack ask for a better end 
when he is broken down, than to be driven to death 
in London streets or to stand for hours on cab ranks 
in the rain and snow of an English winter? The 
Spaniards are certainly cruel to animals; on the 
other hand, they never beat their wives nor kick their 
children. From the dog's point of view I would ten 
[133] 



Andalusia 

times sooner be English, but from the woman's — I 
have my doubts. Some while ago certain papers, 
anxious perhaps to taste the comfortable joys of 
self-righteousness, turned their attention to the bru- 
tahty of Spaniards, and a score of journalists wrote 
indignantly of bull-fights. At the same time, by a 
singular chance, a prize-fighter was killed in London, 
and the Spanish papers printed long tirades against 
the gross, barbaric English. The two sets of writers 
were equally vehement, inaccurate and flowery; but 
what seemed most remarkable was that each side 
evidently felt quite unaffected horror and disgust 
for the proceedings of the other. Like persons of 
doubtful character inveighing against the vices of 
the age, both were so carried away by moral en- 
thusiasm as to forget that there was anything in 
their own histories which made this virtuous fury a 
little absurd. There is really a good deal in the 
point of view. 



[134] 



XXIV: Corrida de Toros — / 

On the day before a bull-fight all the world goes 
down to Tablada to see the bulls. Youth and beauty 
drive, for every one in Seville of the least preten- 
sion to gentility keeps a carriage ; the Sevillans, 
characteristically, may live in houses void of every 
necessity and comfort, eating bread and water, but 
they will have a carriage to drive in the paseo. You 
see vehicles of all kinds, from the new landau with 
a pair of magnificent Andaluslan horses, or the 
strange omnibus drawn by mules, typical of South- 
ern Spain, to the shabby victoria, with a broken- 
down hack and a decrepit coachman. 

Tablada is a vast common without the town, run- 
ning along the river side, and here all manner of 
cattle are kept through the year. But the fighting 
bulls are brought from their respective farms the 
morning before the day of battle, and each is put 
in an enclosure with its attendant oxen. The crowd 
looks eagerly, admiring the length of horn, fore- 
casting the fight. 

The handsome brutes remain there till midnight, 

when they are brought to the ring and shut in little 

separate boxes till the morrow. The encierro, as 

it is called, is an interesting sight. The road has 

[135] 



Andalusia 

been palisaded and the bulls are driven along by 
oxen. It is very curious to wait in the darkness, in 
the silence, under the myriad stars of the southern 
night. Your ear is astrung to hear the distant 
tramp ; the waiting seems endless. A sound is heard 
and every one runs to the side ; but nothing follows, 
and the waiting continues. Suddenly the stillness is 
broken by tinkling bells, the oxen; and immediately 
there is a tramp of rushing hoofs. Three men on 
horseback gallop through the entrance, and on their 
heels the cattle; the riders turn sharply round, a 
door is swung to behind them, and the oxen, with 
the bulls in their midst, pound through the ring. 

The doors are opened two hours before the per- 
formance. Through the morning the multitude has 
trooped to the Plaza San Fernando to buy tickets, 
and in the afternoon all Seville wends its way to- 
wards the ring. The road is thronged with people, 
they walk in dense crowds, pushing one another to 
get out of the way of broken-down shays that roll 
along filled with enthusiasts. The drivers crack 
their whips, shouting : " Un real, un real a los 
Toros! " ^ The sun beats down and the sky is in- 
tensely blue. It is very hot, already people are 
blowing and panting, boys sell fans at a halfpenny 
each. " Abanicos a perra chica! " ^ 

1 " Twopence-halfpenny to the Bulls." 

2 " Fans, one halfpenny each ! " 

[136] 



Corrida de Toros — / 
When you come near the ring the din is tremen- 
dous; the many vendors shout their wares, middle- 
men offer tickets at double the usual price, friends 
call to one another. Now and then is a quarrel, a 
quick exchange of abuse as one pushes or treads upon 
his neighbour; but as a rule all are astonishingly 
good-natured. A man, after a narrow escape from 
being run over, will shout a joke to the driver, who 
is always ready with a repartee. And they surge 
on towards the entrance. Every one is expectant 
and thrilled, the very air seems to give a sense of 
exhilaration. The people crowd in like ants. All 
things are gay and full of colour and life. 

A picador passes on horseback in his uncouth 
clothes, and all turn to look at him. 

And in the ring itself the scene is marvellous. On 
one side the sun beats down with burning rays, and 
there, the seats being cheaper, notwithstanding the 
terrific heat people are closely packed. There is a 
perpetual irregular movement of thousands of 
women's fans fluttering to and fro. Opposite, in 
the shade, are nearly as many persons, but of better 
class. Above, in the boxes sit ladies in mantillas, 
and when a beautiful woman appears she is often 
greeted with a burst of applause, which she takes 
most unconcernedly. When at last the ring is full, 
tier above tier crammed so that not a place is vacant, 
it gives quite an extraordinary emotion. The serried 
masses cease then to be a collection of individuals, 
[137] 



Andalusia 

but gain somehow a corporate unity; you realise, 
with a kind of indeterminate fear, the many-headed 
beast of savage instincts and of ruthless might. No 
crowd is more picturesque than the Spanish, and the 
dark masculine costume vividly contrasts with the 
bright colours of the women, with flowers in their 
hair and mantillas of white lace. 

But also the tremendous vitality of it all strikes 
you. Late arrivals walk along looking for room, 
gesticulating, laughing, bandying jokes; vendors of 
all sorts cry out their goods: the men who sell 
prawns, shrimps, and crabs' claws from Cadiz pass 
with large baskets: " Bocas, hocas!" 

The water sellers with huge jars: '' Agua, quien 
quiere aguaf Agual '^ ^ The word sings along the 
interminable rows. A man demands a glass and 
hands down a halfpenny; a mug of sparkling water 
is sent up to him. It is deliciously cool. 

The sellers of lottery tickets, offering as usual the 
first prize : " Premio gordo, quien quiere el premio 
gordo '' ; ^ or yelling the number of the ticket : " Who 
wants number seventeen hundred and eighty-five for 
three pesetas?" 

And the newsboys add to the din: " Noticiero! 
Porvenir! " Later on arrives the Madrid paper: 
"Heraldo! Heraldo!" 

Lastly the men with stacks of old journals to use 

1" Water, who wants water? Water!" 
2 " The first prize, who wants the first prize?" 
[138] 



Corrida de Toros — / 

as seats : " A perra chica, dos periodicos a perra 
chica!"^ 

Suddenly there is a great clapping of hands, and 
looking up you find the president has come; he is 
supported by two friends, and all three, with comic 
solemnity, wear tall hats and frock coats. They 
bow to the public. Bull-fighting is the only punc- 
tual thing in Spain, and the president arrives pre- 
cisely as the clock strikes half-past four. He waves 
a handkerchief, the band strikes up, a door is opened, 
and the fighters enter. First come the three mata- 
dors, the eldest in the middle, the next on his right, 
and the youngest on the left; they are followed by 
their respective cuadrillas, the banderilleros, the 
capeadors, the picadors on horseback, and finally the 
chulos, whose duty it is to unsaddle dead horses, 
attach the slaughtered bull to the team of mules, 
and perform other minor offices. They advance, 
gorgeous in their coloured satin and gold embroid- 
ery, bearing a cloak peculiarly folded over the arm; 
they walk with a kind of swinging motion, as or- 
dained by the convention of a century. They bow 
to the president, very solemnly. The applause is 
renewed. They retire to the side, three picadors 
take up their places at some distance from one an- 
other on the right of the door from which issues 
the bull. The alguaciles, in black velvet, with 
peaked and feathered hats, on horseback, come for- 

1 " One halfpenny, two papers for one halfpenny." 
[139] 



Andalusia 

ward, and the key of the bull's den is thrown to 
them. They disappear. The fighters meanwhile 
exchange their satin cloaks for others of less value. 
There is another flourish of trumpets, the gates are 
opened for the bull. 

Then comes a moment of expectation, every one 
is trembling with excitement. There is perfect 
silence. All eyes are fixed on the open gate. 



[140] 



XXV: Corrida de Toros — // 

One or two shouts are heard, a murmur passes 
through the people, and the bull emerges — shin- 
ing, black, with massive shoulders and fine horns. 
It advances a little, a splendid beast conscious of its 
strength, and suddenly stops dead, looking round. 
The toreros wave their capes and the picadors flour- 
ish their lances, long wooden spikes with an iron 
point. The bull catches sight of a horse, and lower- 
ing his head, bears down swiftly upon it. The 
picador takes firmer hold of his lance, and when 
the brute reaches him plants the pointed end between 
its shoulders; at the same moment the senior mata- 
dor dashes forward and with his cloak distracts the 
bull's attention. It wheels round and charges; he 
makes a pass; it goes by almost under his arm, but 
quickly turns and again attacks. This time the 
skilful fighter receives it backwards, looking over his 
shoulder, and again it passes. There are shouts of 
enthusiasm from the public. The bull's glossy coat 
is stained with red. 

A second picador comes forward, and the bull 
charges again, but furiously now, exerting its full 
might. The horse is thrown to the ground and the 

[141] 



Andalusia 

rider, by an evil chance, falls at the bull's very feet. 
It cannot help seeing him and lowers its head; the 
people catch their breath; many spring instinctively 
to their feet; here and there is a woman's frightened 
cry; but immediately a matador draws the cape over 
its eyes and passionately the bull turns on him. 
Others spring forward and lift the picador; his trap- 
pings are so heavy that he cannot rise alone; he is 
dragged to safety and the steed brought back for 
him. One more horseman advances, and the bull 
with an angry snort bounds at him; the picador 
does his best, but is no match for the giant strength. 
The bull digs its horns deep into the horse's side 
and lifts man and beast right off the ground; they 
fall with a heavy thud, and as the raging brute is 
drawn off, blood spurts from the horse's flank. The 
chulos try to get it up ; they drag on the reins with 
shouts and curses, and beat it with sticks. But the 
wretched creature, wounded to the death, helplessly 
lifts its head. They see it is useless and quickly 
remove saddle and bridle, a man comes with a short 
dagger called the puntilla, which he drives into its 
head, the horse falls on its side, a quiver passes 
through its body, and it is dead. The people are 
shouting with pleasure ; the bull is a good one. The 
first picador comes up again and the bull attacks for 
the fourth time, but it has lost much strength, and 
the man drives it off. It has made a horrible gash 
in the horse's belly, and the entrails protrude, drag- 

[142] 



Corrida de Toros — // 
ging along the ground. The horse is taken out. 

The president waves his handkerchief, the trum- 
pets sound, and the first act of the drama is over. 

The picadors leave the ring and the handerilleros 
take their darts, about three feet long, gay with 
decorations of coloured paper. While they make 
ready, others play with the bull, gradually tiring it: 
one throws aside his cape and awaits the charge 
with folded arms; the bull rushes at him, and the 
man without moving his feet awists his body away 
and the savage brute passes on. There is a great 
burst of applause for a daring feat well done. 

Each matador has two handerilleros, and it is 
proper that three pairs of these darts should be 
placed. One of them steps to within speaking dis- 
tance of the animal, and holding a banderilla in 
each hand lifted above his head, stamps his foot and 
shouts insulting words. The bull does not know 
what this new thing is, but charges blindly; at the 
same moment the man runs forward, and passing, 
plants the two darts between the shoulders. If they 
are well placed there is plentiful hand-clapping; no 
audience is so liberal of applause for skill or courage, 
none so intolerant of cowardice or stupidity; and 
with equal readiness it will yell with delight or hiss 
and hoot and whistle. The second banderillero 
comes forward to plant his pair; a third is inserted 
and the trumpets sound for the final scene. 

This is the great duel between the single man 
[143] 



Andalusia 
and the bull. The matador advances, sword in 
hand, with the muleta, the red cloth for the passes, 
over his arm. Under the president's box he takes 
off his hat, and with fine gesture makes a grandilo- 
quent speech, wherein he vows either to conquer or 
to die : the harangue is finished with a wheel round 
and a dramatic flinging of his hat to attendants on 
the other side of the barrier. He pensively walks 
forward. All eyes are upon him — and he knows 
it. He motions his companions to stand back and 
goes close to the bull. He is quite alone, with his 
life in his hands — a slender figure, very handsome 
in the gorgeous costume glittering with fine gold. 
He arranges the muleta over a little stick, so that it 
hangs down like a flag and conceals his sword. 
Then quite solemnly he walks up to the bull, holding 
the red rag in his left hand. The bull watches sus- 
piciously, suddenly charges, and the muleta is passed 
over its head; the matador does not move a muscle, 
the bull turns and stands quite motionless. Another 
charge, another pass. And so he continues, making 
seven or eight of various sorts, to the growing ap- 
probation of the public. At last it is time to kill. 
With great caution he withdraws the sword; the bull 
looks warily. He makes two or three passes more 
and walks round till he gets the animal into proper 
position: the forefeet must be set squarely on the 
ground. " Ora! Oral" cry the people. "Now! 
Now!" The bull is well placed. The matador 
[144] 



Corrida de Toros — // 
draws the sword back a little and takes careful aim. 
The bull rushes, and at the same moment the man 
makes one bound forward and buries the sword to 
the hilt between the brute's shoulders. It falls to 
its knees and rolls over. 

Then is a perfect storm of applause; and It is 
worth while to see fourteen thousand people wild 
with delight. The band bursts into joyous strains, 
and the mules come galloping In, gaily caparisoned; 
a rope is passed round the dead beast, and they drag 
It away. The matador advances to the president's 
box and bows, while the shouting grows more fran- 
tic. He walks round, bowing and smiling, and the 
public In its enthusiasm throws down hats and cigars 
and sticks. 

But there are no intervals to a bull-fight, and the 
picadors immediately reappear and take their places; 
the doors are flung open, and a second bull rushes 
forth. The matador still goes round bowing to the 
applause, elaborately unmindful of the angry beast. 

Six animals are killed in an afternoon within two 
hours, and then the mighty audience troop out with 
flushed cheeks, the smell of blood strong in their 
nostrils. 



[145] 



XXVI: On Horseback 

I had a desire to see something of the very heart 
of Andalusia, of that part of the country which had 
preserved its antique character, where railway trains 
were not, and the horse, the mule, the donkey were 
still the only means of transit. After much scrutiny 
of local maps and conversation with horse-dealers 
and others, I determined from Seville to go circuit- 
ously to Ecija, and thence return by another route 
as best I could. The district I meant to traverse in 
olden times was notorious for its brigands; even 
thirty years ago the prosperous tradesmen, voyag- 
ing on his mule from town to town, was liable to 
be seized by unromantic outlaws and detained till 
his friends forwarded ransom, while ears and fingers 
were playfully sent to prove identity. In Southern 
Spain brigandage necessarily flourished, for not only 
were the country-folk in collusion with the bandits, 
but the very magistrates united with them to share the 
profits of lawless undertakings. Drastic measures 
were needful to put down the evil, and in a truly 
Spanish way drastic measures were employed. The 
Civil Guard, whose duty it was to see to the safety 
of the country side, had no confidence in the justice 
[146] 



On Horseback 

of Madrid, whither captured highwaymen were sent 
for trial; once there, for a few hundred dollars, the 
most murderous ruffian could prove his babe-like 
innocence, forthwith return to the scene of his for- 
mer exploits and begin again. So they hit upon an 
expedient. The Civil Guards set out for the capital 
with their prisoner handcuffed between them; but, 
curiously enough, in every single case the brigand 
had scarcely marched a couple of miles before he 
incautiously tried to escape, whereupon he was, of 
course, promptly shot through the back. People 
noticed two things : first, that the clothes of the dead 
man were often singed, as if he had not escaped 
very far before he was shot down; that only proved 
his guardians' zeal. But the other was stranger: 
the two Civil Guards, when after a couple of hours 
they returned to the town, as though by a myste- 
rious premonition they had known the bandit would 
make some rash attempt, invariably had waiting for 
them an excellent hot dinner. 

The only robber of importance who avoided such 
violent death was the chief of a celebrated band 
who, when captured, signed a declaration that he 
had not the remotest idea of escaping, and insisted 
on taking with him to Madrid his soHcitor and a 
witness. He reached the capital alive, and having 
settled his little affairs with benevolent judges, turned 
to a different means of livelihood, and eventually, it 
is said, occupied a responsible post in the Govern- 
[147] 



Andalusia 

ment. It is satisfactory to think that his felonious 
talents were not in after-life entirely wasted. 

It was the beginning of March when I started. 
According to the old proverb, the dog was already 
seeking the shade : En Marzo husca la somhra el 
perro; the chilly Spaniard, loosening the folds of 
his capa, acknowledged that at midday in the sun it 
was almost warm. The winter rains appeared to 
have ceased; the sky over Seville was cloudless, not 
with the intense azure of midsummer, but with a blue 
that seemed mixed with silver. And in the sun the 
brown water of the Guadalquivir glittered like the 
scales on a fish's back, or like the burnished gold of 
old Moorish pottery. 

I set out in the morning early, with saddle-bags 
fixed on either side and poncho strapped to my 
pommel. A loaded revolver, though of course I 
never had a chance to use it, made me feel pleas- 
antly adventurous. I walked cautionsly over the 
slippery cobbles of the streets, disturbing the silence 
with the clatter of my horse's shoes. Now and then 
a mule or a donkey trotted by, with panniers full of 
vegetables, of charcoal or of bread, between which 
on the beast's neck sat perched a man in a short 
blouse. I came to the old rampart of the town, now 
a promenade; and at the gate groups of idlers, with 
cigarettes between their lips, stood talking. 

An hospitable friend had offered lodging for the 
[148] 



On Horseback 

night and food; after which, my ideas of the prob- 
able accommodation being vague, I expected to 
sleep upon straw, for victuals depending on the way- 
side inns. I arrived at the Campo de la Cruz, a 
tiny chapel which marks the same distance from the 
Cathedral as Jesus Christ walked to the Cross; it 
is the final boundary of Seville. 

Immediately afterwards I left the high-road, strik- 
ing across country to Carmona. The land was al- 
ready wild; on either side of the bridle-path were 
great wastes of sand covered only by palmetto. 
The air was cool and fresh, like the air of English 
country in June when it has rained through the 
night ; and Aguador, snorting with pleasure, cantered 
over the uneven ground, nimbly avoiding holes and 
deep ruts with the sure-f ootcdness of his Arab blood. 
An Andalusian horse cares nothing for the ground 
on which he goes, though it be hard and unyielding 
as iron; and he clambers up and down steep, rocky 
precipices as happily as he trots along a cinder- 
path. 

I passed a shepherd in a ragged cloak and a broad- 
brimmed hat, holding a crook. He stared at me, 
his flock of brown sheep clustered about him as I 
scampered by, and his dog rushed after, barking. 

" Vaya listed con Diosf " 

I came to little woods of pine-trees, with long, 
thin trunks, and the foliage spreading umbrella- 
wise; round them circled innumerable hawks, whose 
[149] 



Andalusia 

nests I saw among the branches. Two ravens 
crossed my path, their wings heavily flapping. 

The great charm of the Andalusian country is that 
you seize romance, as it were, in the act. In north- 
ern lands it is only by a mental effort that you can 
realise the picturesque value of the life that sur- 
rounds you; and, for my part, I can perceive it only 
by putting it mentally in black and white, and read- 
ing it as though between the covers of a book. 
Once, I remember, in Brittany, in a distant corner of 
that rock-bound coast, I sat at midnight in a fisher- 
man's cottage playing cards by the light of two tallow 
candles. Next door, with only a wall between us, a 
very old sailor lay dying in the great cupboard-bed 
which had belonged to his fathers before him; and 
he fought for life with the remains of that strenuous 
vigour with which in other years he had battled 
against the storms of the Atlantic. In the stillness 
of the night, the waves, with the murmur of a lull- 
aby, washed gently upon the shingle, and the stars 
shone down from a clear sky. I looked at the 
yellow light on the faces of the players, gathered in 
that desolate spot from the four corners of the earth, 
and cried out : " By Jove, this is romance ! " I had 
never before caught that impression in the very mak- 
ing, and I was delighted with my good fortune. 

The answer came quickly from the American: 
" Don't talk bosh ! It's your deal." 

But for all that it was romance, seized fugitively, 

[150] 



On Horseback 
and life at that moment threw itself into a decorative 
pattern fit to be remembered. It is the same effect 
which you get more constantly in Spain, so that the 
commonest things are transfigured into beauty. For 
in the cactus and the aloe and the broad fields of 
grain, in the mules with their wide panniers and the 
peasants, in the shepherds' huts and the straggling 
farm-houses, the romantic is there, needing no 
subtlety to be discovered; and the least imaginative 
may feel a certain thrill when he understands that 
the life he leads is not without its aesthetic meaning. 

I rode for a long way in complete solitude, through 
many miles of this sandy desert. Then the country 
changed, and olive-groves in endless succession fol- 
lowed one another, the trees with curiously decora- 
tive effect were planted in long, even hnes. The 
earth was a vivid red, contrasting with the blue sky 
and the sombre olives, gnarled and fantastically 
twisted, like evil spirits metamorphosed: in places 
they had sown corn, and the young green enhanced 
the shrill diversity of colour. With its clear, bril- 
liant outlines and its lack of shadow, the scene re- 
minded one of a prim pattern, such as in Jane Aus- 
ten's day young gentlewomen worked in worsted. 
Sometimes I saw women among the trees, perched 
like monkeys on the branches, or standing below 
with large baskets; they were extraordinarily quaint 
in the trousers which modesty bade them wear for 
[151] 



Andalusia 

the concealment of their limbs when olive-picking. 
The costume was so masculine, their faces so red 
and weather-beaten, that the yellow handkerchief 
on their heads was really the only means of dis- 
tinguishing their sex. 

But the path became more precipitous, hewn from 
the sandstone, and so polished by the numberless 
shoes of donkeys and of mules that I hardly dared 
walk upon it ; and suddenly I saw Carmona in front 
of me — quite close. 



[152] 



XXVII: By the Road— I 

The approach to Carmona is a very broad, white 
street, much too wide for the cottages which hne it, 
deserted; and the young trees planted on either side 
are too small to give shade. The sun beat down 
with a fierce glare and the dust rose in clouds as I 
passed. Presently I came to a great Moorish gate- 
way, a dark mass of stone, battlemented, with a 
lofty horseshoe arch. People were gathered about 
it in many-coloured groups, I found it was a holiday 
in Carmona, and the animation was unwonted; in 
a corner stood the hut of the Consumo, and the men 
advanced to examine my saddle-bags. I passed 
through, into the town, looking right and left for 
a parador, an hostelry whereat to leave my horse. 
I bargained for the price of food and saw Aguador 
comfortably stalled; then made my way to the Nek- 
ropolis where lived my host. There are many 
churches in Carmona, and into one of these I en- 
tered; it had nothing of great interest, but to a cer- 
tain degree it was rich, rich in its gilded woodwork 
and in the brocade that adorned the pillars; and I 
felt that these Spanish churches lent a certain dig- 
nity to life: for all the careless flippany of Andalusia 
they still remained to strike a nobler note. I for- 
[153] 



Andalusia 

got willingly that the land was priest-ridden and 
superstitious, so that a Spaniard could tell me bit- 
terly that there were but two professions open to 
his countrymen, the priesthood and the bull-ring. 
It was pleasant to rest in that cool and fragrant 
darkness. 

My host was an archseologist, and we ate sur- 
rounded by broken earthenware, fragmentary mo- 
saics, and grinning skulls. It was curious after- 
wards to wander in the graveyard which, with inde- 
fatigable zeal, he had excavated, among the tombs 
of forgotten races, letting oneself down to explore 
the subterranean cells. The paths he had made 
in the giant cemetery were lined with a vast number 
of square sandstone boxes which contained human 
ashes; and now, when the lid was lifted, a green 
lizard or a scorpion darted out. From the hill I saw 
stretched before me the great valley of the Guadal- 
quivir: with the squares of olive and of ploughed 
field, and the various greens of the corn, it was 
like a vast, multicoloured carpet. But later, with 
the sunset, black clouds arose, splendidly piled upon 
one another; and the twilight air was chill and grey. 
A certain sternness came over the olive-groves, and 
they might well have served as a reproach to the 
facile Andaluz; for their cold passionless green 
seemed to offer a warning to his folly. 

At night my host left me to sleep in the village, 
and I lay in bed alone in the little house among the 

[154] 



By the Road — / 

tombs; it was very silent. The wind sprang up 
and blew about me, whistling through the windows, 
whistling weirdly; and I felt as though the multi- 
tudes that had been buried in that old cemetery filled 
the air with their serried numbers, a vast, silent 
congregation waiting motionless for they knew not 
what. I recalled a gruesome fact that my friend had 
told me; not far from there, in tombs that he had 
disinterred the skeletons lay huddled spasmodically, 
with broken skulls and a great stone by the side; 
for when a man, he said, lay sick unto death, his 
people took him, and placed him in his grave, and 
with the stone killed him. 

In the morning I set out again. It was five-and- 
thirty miles to Ecija, but a new high road stretched 
from place to place and I expected easy riding. 
Carmona stands on the top of a precipitous hill, 
round which winds the beginning of the road; be- 
low, after many zigzags, I saw its continuation, a 
straight white line reaching as far as I could see. In 
Andalusia, till a few years ago, there were practi- 
cally no high roads, and even now they are few and 
bad. The chief communication from town to town 
is usually an uneven track, which none attempts to 
keep up, with deep ruts, and palmetto growing on 
either side, and occasional pools of water. A day's 
rain makes it a quagmire, impassable for anything 
beside the sure-footed mule. 
[155] 



Andalusia 

I went on, meeting now and then a string of asses, 
their panniers filled with stones or with wood for 
Carmona : the drivers sat on the rump of the hind- 
most animal, for that is the only comfortable way 
to ride a donkey. A peasant trotted briskly by on 
his mule, his wife behind him with her arms about 
his waist. I saw a row of ploughs in a field; to 
each were attached two oxen, and they went along 
heavily, one behind the other in regular line. By 
the side of every pair a man walked bearing a 
long goad, and one of them sang a Malaguena, its 
monotonous notes rising and falling slowly. From 
time to time I passed a white farm, a little way from 
the road, invitingly cool in the heat; the sun began 
to beat down fiercely. The inevitable storks were 
perched on a chimney, by their big nest; and when 
they flew in front of me, with their broad white 
wings and their red legs against the blue sky, they 
gave a quaint impression of a Japanese screen. 

A farmhouse such as this seems to me always a 
type of the Spanish impenetrabiUty. I have been 
over many of them, and know the manner of their 
rooms and the furniture, the round of duties there 
performed and how the day is portioned out; but 
the real life of the inhabitants escapes me. My 
knowledge is merely external. I am conscious that 
It is the same of the Andalusians generally, and am 
dismayed because I know practically nothing more 
after a good many years than I learnt in the first 

[156] 



By the Road — / 

months of my acquaintance with them. Below the 
superficial similarity with the rest of Europe which 
of late they have acquired, there Is a difference which 
makes It Impossible to get at the bottom of their 
hearts. They have no openness as have the French 
and the Italians, with whom a good deal of Intimacy 
is possible even to an Englishman, but on the con- 
trary an Eastern reserve which continually baffles me. 
I cannot realise their thoughts nor their outlook. I 
feel always below the grace of their behaviour the 
instinctive, primeval hatred of the stranger. 

Gradually the cultivation ceased, and I saw no 
further sign of human beings. I returned to the 
desert of the previous day, but the land was more 
dreary. The little groves of pine-trees had disap- 
peared, there were no olives, no cornfields, not even 
the aloe nor the wilder cactus; but on either side as 
far as the horizon, desert wastes, littered with stones 
and with rough boulders, grown over only by pal- 
metto. For many miles I went, dismounting now 
and then to stretch my legs and sauntering a while 
with the reins over my shoulder. Towards mid-day 
I rested by the wayside and let Aguador eat what 
grass he could. 

Presently, continuing my journey, I caught sight 
of a little hovel, where the fir-branch over the door 
told me wine was to be obtained. I fastened my 
horse to a ring in the wall, and, going in, found an 
aged crone who gave me a glass of that thin white 
[157] 



Andalusia 

wine, produce of the last year's virxtage, which is 
called Vino de la Hoja, wine of the leaf; she looked 
at me incuriously as though she saw so many people 
and they were so much alike that none repaid par- 
ticular scrutiny. I tried to talk with her, for it 
seemed a curious life that she must lead, alone in 
that hut many miles from the nearest hamlet, with 
never a house in sight; but she was taciturn and eyed 
me now with something like suspicion. I asked for 
food, but with a sullen frown she answered that she 
had none to spare. I inquired the distance to 
Luisiana, a village on the way to Ecija where I had 
proposed to lunch, and shrugging her shoulders, she 
replied: "How should I know! " I was about to 
go when I heard a great clattering, and a horseman 
galloped up. He dismounted and walked in, a fine 
example of the Andalusian countryman, handsome 
and tall, well-shaved, with close-cropped hair. He 
wore elaborately decorated gaiters, the usual short, 
close-fitting jacket, and a broad-brimmed hat; in his 
belt were a knife and a revolver, and slung across his 
back a long gun. He would have made an admir- 
able brigand of comic-opera; but was in point of 
fact a farmer riding, as he told me, to see his novia, 
or lady-love, at a neighbouring farm. 

I found him more communicative and in the 
politest fashion we discussed the weather and the 
crops. He had been in Seville. 

""Ghe maravilla! " he cried, waving his fine, 

t^ [158] 



By the Road — / 

strong hands. "What a marvel! But I cannot 
bear the town-folk. What thieves and liars! " 

" Town-folk should stick to the towns," muttered 
the old woman, looking at me somewhat pointedly. 

The remark drew the farmer's attention more 
closely to me. 

" And what are you doing here? " he asked. 

" Riding to Ecija." 

" Ah, you're a commercial traveller," he cried, 
with fine scorn. " You foreigners bleed the country 
of all its money. You and the government! " 

" Rogues and vagabonds! " muttered the old wo- 
man. 

Nothwithsanding, the farmer with much conde- 
scension accepted one of my cigars, and made me 
drink with him a glass of aguardiente. 

We went off together. The mare he rode was 
really magnificent, rather large, holding her head 
beautifully, with a tail that almost swept the ground. 
She carried as if it were nothing the heavy Spanish 
saddle, covered with a white sheep-skin, its high 
triangular pommel of polished wood. Our ways, 
however, quickly diverged. I inquired again how 
far it was to the nearest village. 

" Eh ! " said the farmer, with a vague gesture. 
" Two leagues. Three leagues. Quien Sabef Who 
knows? Jdiosf" 

He put the spurs to his mare and galloped down 
a bridle-track. I, whom no fair maiden awaited, 
trotted on soberly. 

[159] 



XXVIII: By the Road— II 

The endless desert grew rocky and less sandy, 
the colours duller. Even the palmetto found scanty 
sustenance, and huge boulders, strewn as though 
some vast torrent had passed through the plain, 
alone broke the desolate flatness. The dusty road 
pursued its way, invariably straight, neither turn- 
ing to one side nor to the other, but continually 
in front of me, a long white line. 

Finally in the distance I saw a group of white 
buildings and a cluster of trees. I thought it was 
Luisiana, but Luisiana, they had said, was a populous 
hamlet, and here were only two or three houses 
and not a soul. I rode up and found among the 
trees a tall white church, and a pool of murky water, 
further back, a low, new edifice, which was evidently 
a monastery, and a posada. Presently a Franciscan 
monk in his brown cowl came out of the church, and 
he told me that Luisiana was a full league off, but 
that food could be obtained at the neighbouring inn. 

The posada was merely a long barn, with an open 
roof of wood, on one side of which were half a dozen 
mangers and in a corner two mules. Against an- 
other wall were rough benches for travellers to sleep 

[1 60] 



By the Road — // 

on. I dismounted and walked to the huge fireplace 
at one end, where I saw three very old women 
seated like witches round a hrasero, the great brass 
dish of burning cinders. With true Spanish stolid- 
ity they did not rise as I approached, but waited for 
me to speak, looking at me indifferently. I asked 
whether I could have anything to eat. 

" Fried eggs." 

"Anything else? " 

The hostess, a tall creature, haggard and grim, 
shrugged her shoulders. Her jaws were toothless, 
and when she spoke it was difficult to understand. 
I tied Aguador to a manger and took off his saddle. 
The old women stirred themselves at last, and one 
brought a portion of chopped straw and a little bar- 
ley. Another with the bellows blew on the cinders, 
and the third, taking the eggs from a basket, fried 
them on the brasero. Besides, they gave me coarse 
brown bread and red wine, which was coarser still; 
for dessert the hostess went to the door and from a 
neighbouring tree plucked oranges. 

When I had finished — it was not a very substan- 
tial meal — I drew my chair to the brasero and 
handed round my cigarette-case. The old women 
helped themselves, and a smile of thanks made the 
face of my gaunt hostess somewhat less repellent. 
We smoked a while in silence. 

" Are you all alone here? " I asked, at length. 

The hostess made a movement of her head to- 
[i6i] 



Andalusia 

wards the country. " My son is out shooting," she 
said, " and two others are in Cuba, fighting the 
rebels." 

" God protect them! " muttered another. 

" All our sons go to Cuba now," said the first. 
" Oh, I don't blame the Cubans, but the govern- 
ment." 

An angry light filled her eyes, and she lifted her 
clenched hand, cursing the rulers at Madrid who 
took her children. " They're robbers and fools. 
Why can't they let Cuba go? It isn't worth the 
money we pay in taxes." 

She spoke so vehemently, mumbling the words 
between her toothless gums, that I could scarcely 
make them out. 

" In Madrid they don't care if the country goes 
to rack and ruin so long as they fill their purses. 
Listen." She put one hand on my arm. " My boy 
came back with fever and dysentery. He was ill 
for months — at death's door — and I nursed him 
day and night. And almost before he could walk 
they sent him out again to that accursed country." 

The tears rolled heavily down her wrinkled 
cheeks. 

Luisiana is a curious place. It was a colony 
formed by Charles III. of Spain with Germans whom 
he brought to people the desolate land; and I fan- 
cied the Teuton ancestry was apparent in the smaller 

[162] 



By the Road — // 

civility of the inhabitants. They looked sullenly as 
I passed, and none gave the friendly Andalusian 
greeting. I saw a woman hanging clothes on the 
line outside her house; she had blue eyes and flaxen 
hair, a healthy red face, and a solidity of build which 
proved the purity of her northern blood. The 
houses, too, had a certain exotic quaintness; not- 
withstanding the universal whitewash of the South, 
there was about them still a northern character. 
They were prim and regularly built, with little plots 
of garden; the fences and the shutters were bright 
green. I almost expected to see German words on 
the post-office and on the tobacco-shop, and the 
grandiloquent Spanish seemed out of place; I 
thought the Spanish clothes of the men sat upon 
them uneasily. 

The day was drawing to a close and I pushed on 
to reach Ecija before night, but Aguador was tired 
and I was obliged mostly to walk. Now the high- 
way turned and twisted among little hills and it was 
a strange relief to leave the dead level of the plains : 
on each side the land was barren and desolate, and 
in the distance were dark mountains. The sky had 
clouded over, and the evening was grey and very 
cold; the solitude was awful. At last I overtook a 
pedlar plodding along by his donkey, the panniers 
filled to overflowing with china and glass, which he 
was taking to sell in Ecija. He wished to talk, but 
he was going too slowly, and I left him. I had 

[163] 



Andalusia 

hills to climb now, and at the top of each expected 
to see the town, but every time was disappointed. 
The traces of man surrounded me at last; again I 
rode among olive-groves and cornfields; the high- 
way now was bordered with straggling aloes and 
with hedges of cactus. 

At last ! I reached the brink of another hill, and 
then, absolutely at my feet, so that I could have 
thrown a stone on its roofs, lay Ecija with its num- 
berless steeples. 



[164] 



XXIX: Ecija 



The central square, where are the government 
offices, the taverns, and a Httle inn, is a charming 
place, quiet and lackadaisical, its pale browns and 
greys very restful in the twilight, and harmonious. 
The houses with their queer windows and their bal- 
conies of wrought iron are built upon arcades which 
give a pleasant feeling of intimacy: in summer, cool 
and dark, they must be the promenade of all the 
gossips and the loungers. One can imagine the un- 
eventful life, the monotonous round of existence : 
and yet the Andalusian blood runs in the people's 
veins. To my writer's fantasy Ecija seemed a fit 
background for some tragic story of passion or of 
crime. 

I dined, unromantically enough, with a pair of 
commercial travellers, a post-office clerk, and two 
stout, elderly men who appeared to be retired of- 
ficers. Spanish victuals are terrible and strange; 
food is even more an affair of birth than religion, 
since a man may change his faith, but hardly his 
manner of eating: the stomach used to roast meat 
and Yorkshire pudding rebels against Eastern cook- 
ery, and a Christian may sooner become a Buddhist 
than a beef-eater a guzzler of olla podrida. The 

[165] 



Andalusia 

Spaniards without weariness eat the same dinner 
day after day, year in, year out; it is always the 
same white, thin, oily soup ; a dish of haricot beans 
and maize swimming in a revolting sauce; a name- 
less entree fried in oil — Andalusians have a passion 
for other animals' insides; a thin steak, tough as 
leather and grilled to utter dryness; raisins and 
oranges. You rise from table feeling that you have 
been soaked in rancid oil. 

My table-companions were disposed to be sociable. 
The travellers desired to know whether I was there 
to sell anything, and one drew from his pocket, for 
my inspection, a case of watch-chains. The officers 
surmised that I had come from Gibraltar to spy the 
land, and to terrify me, spoke of the invincible 
strength of the Spanish forces. 

" Are you aware," said the elder, whose adiposity 
prevented his outward appearance from correspond- 
ing with his warlike heart, " Are you aware that in 
the course of history our army has never once been 
defeated, and our fleet but twice? " 

He mentioned the catastrophes, but I had never 
heard of them : and Trafalgar was certainly not in- 
cluded. I hazarded a discreet inquiry, whereupon, 
with much emphasis, both explained how on that 
occasion the Spanish had soundly thrashed old Nel- 
son, although he had discomfited the French. 

" It is odd," I observed, " that British historians 
should be so inaccurate." 

[i66] 



Ecija 

"It is discreditable," retorted my acquaintance, 
with a certain severity. 

" How long did the English take to conquer the 
Soudan?" remarked the other, somewhat aggres- 
sively picking his teeth. " Twenty years ? We con- 
quered Morocco in three months." 

" And the Moors are devils," said the commercial 
traveller. " I know, because I once went to Tan- 
giers for my firm." 

After dinner I wandered about the streets, past 
the great old houses of the nobles in the Calle de los 
Caballeros, empty now and dilapidated, for every 
gentleman that can put a penny in his pocket goes to 
Madrid to spend it; down to the river which flowed 
swiftly between high banks. Below the bridge two 
Moorish mills, irregular masses of blackness, stood 
finely against the night. Near at hand they were 
still working at a forge, and I watched the flying 
sparks as the smith hammered a horseshoe; the 
workers were like silhouettes in front of the leap- 
ing flames. 

At many windows, to my envy, couples were 
philandering; the night was cold and Corydon stood 
huddled in his cape. But the murmuring as I 
passed was like the flow of a rapid brook, and I 
imagined, I am sure, far more passionate and ro- 
mantic speeches than ever the lovers made. I might 
have uttered them to the moon, but I should have 
felt ridiculous, and it was more practical to jot them 
[167] 



Andalusia 

down afterwards in a note-book. In some of the 
surrounding villages they have so far preserved the 
Moorish style as to have no windows within reach 
of the ground, and lovers then must take advantage 
of the aperture at the bottom of the door made for 
the domestic cat's particular convenience. Stretched 
full length on the ground, on opposite sides of the 
impenetrable barrier, they can still whisper amorous 
commonplaces to one another. But imagine the 
confusion of a polite Spaniard, on a dark night, 
stumbling over a recumbent swain: 

" My dear sir, I beg your pardon. I had no idea 

In old days the disturbance would have been suf- 
ficient cause for a duel, but now manners are more 
peaceful: the gallant, turning a little, removes his 
hat and poHtely answers: 

" It is of no consequence. Vaya listed con 
Dios! ' 

"Good-night!" 

The intruder passes and the beau endeavours pas- 
sionately to catch sight of his mistress' black eyes. 

Next day was Sunday, and I walked by the river 
till I found a plot of grass sheltered from the wind 
by a bristly hedge of cactus. I lay down in the sun, 
lazily watching two oxen that ploughed a neighbour- 
ing field. 

[i68] 



Ecija 

I felt it my duty In the morning to buy a chap- 
book relating the adventures of the famous brigands 
who were called the Seven Children of Ecija: and 
this, somewhat sleepily, I began to read. It re- 
quired a byronic stomach, for the very first chapter 
led me to a monastery where mass proceeded in 
memory of some victim of undiscovered crime. 
Seven handsome men appeared, most splendidly ar- 
rayed, but armed to the teeth; each one was every 
inch a brigand, pitiless yet great of heart, saturnine 
yet gentlemanly; and their peculiarity was that 
though six were killed one day seven would invar- 
iably be seen the next. The most gorgeously ap- 
parelled of them all, entering the sacristy, flung a 
purse of gold to the Superior, while a scalding tear 
coursed down his sunburnt cheek; and this he dried 
with a noble gesture and a richly embroidered hand- 
kerchief! In a whirlwind of romantic properties 
I read of a wicked miser who refused to support his 
brothers' widow, of the widow herself, (brought at 
birth to a gardener in the dead of night by a myste- 
rious mulatto,) and of this lady's lovely offspring. 
My own feelings can never be harrowed on behalf 
of a widow with a marriageable daughter, but I am 
aware that habitual readers of romance, like os- 
triches, will swallow anything. I was hurried to a 
subterranean chamber where the Seven Children, 
in still more elaborate garments, performed various 

[169] . 



Andalusia 

dark deeds, smoked expensive Havanas, and seated 
on silken cushions, partook (like Freemasons) of a 
succulent cold collation. 

The sun shone down with comfortable warmth, 
and I stretched my legs. My pipe was out and I 
refilled it. A meditative snail crawled up and ob- 
served me with flattering interest. 

I grew somewhat confused. A stolen will was of 
course inevitable, and so were prison dungeons; but 
the characters had an irritating trick of revealing at 
critical moments that they were long-lost relatives. 
It must have been a tedious age when poor relations 
were never safely buried. However, youth and 
beauty were at last triumphant and villainy con- 
founded, virtue was crowned with orange blossom 
and vice died a miserable death. Rejoicing in duty 
performed I went to sleep. 



[170] 



XXX: Wind and Storm 

But next morning the sky was dark with clouds; 
people looked up dubiously when I asked the way 
and distance to Marchena, prophesying rain. 
Fetching my horse, the owner of the stable robbed 
me with peculiar callousness, for he had bound my 
hands the day before, when I went to see how Agu- 
ador was treated, by giving me with most courteous 
ceremony a glass of aguardiente; and his urbanity 
was then so captivating that now I lacked assurance 
to protest. I paid the scandalous overcharge with 
a good grace, finding some solace in the reflection 
that he was at least a picturesque blackguard, tall 
and spare, grey-headed, with fine features sharpened 
by age to the strongest lines ; for I am always grate- 
ful to the dishonest when they add a certain esthe- 
tic charm to their crooked ways. There is a prov- 
erb which says that in Ecija every man is a thief and 
every woman — no better than she should be : I 
was not disinclined to believe it. 

I set out, guided by a sign-post, and the good road 
seemed to promise an easy day. They had told me 
that the distance was only six leagues, and I ex- 
pected to arrive before luncheon. Aguador, fresh 
after his day's rest, broke into a canter when I put 

[171] 



Andalusia 

him on tne green plot, which the old Spanish law 
orders to be left for cattle by the side of the high- 
way. But after three miles, without warning, the 
road suddenly stopped. I found myself in an olive- 
grove, with only a narrow path in front of me. It 
looked doubtful, but there was no one in sight and I 
wandered on, trusting to luck. 

Presently, in a clearing, I caught sight of three 
men on donkeys, walking slowly one after the other, 
and I galloped after to ask my way. The beasts 
were laden with undressed skins which they were 
taking to Fuentes, and each man squatted cross- 
legged on the top of his load. The hindermost 
turned right round vv^hen I asked my question and 
sat unconcernedly with his back to the donkey's head. 
He looked about him vaguely as though expecting 
the information I sought to be written on the trunk 
of an olive-tree, and scratched his head. 

" Well," he said, " I should think it was a matter 
of seven leagues, but it will rain before you get 
there." 

"This is the right way, isn't it?" 

" It may be. If it doesn't lead to Marchena it 
must lead somewhere else." 

There was a philosophic ring about the answer 
which made up for the uncertainty. The skinner 
was a fat, good-humoured creature, like all Spaniards 
intensely curious; and to prepare the way for in- 
quiries, offered a cigarette. 

[172] 



Wind and Storm 

" But why do you come to Ecija by so roundabout 
a way as Carmona, and why should you return to 
Seville by such a route as Marchena? " 

His opinion was evidently that the shortest way 
between two places was also the best. He received 
my explanation with incredulity and asked, more 
insistently, why I went to Ecija on horseback when 
I might go by train to Madrid. 

" For pleasure," said I. 

" My good sir, you must have come on some er- 
rand." 

" Oh, yes," I answered, hoping to satisfy him, 
" on the search for emotion," 

At this he bellowed with laughter and turned round 
to tell his fellows. 

" listed es muy guason," he said at length, which 
may be translated; " You're a mighty funny fellow." 

I expressed my pleasure at having provided the 
skinners with amusement and bidding them farewell, 
trotted on. 

I went for a long time among the interminable 
olives, grey and sad beneath the sullen clouds, and 
at last the rain began to fall. I saw a farm not 
very far away and cantered up to ask for shelter. 
An old woman and a labourer came to the door and 
looked at me very doubtfully; they said it was not a 
posada, but my soft words turned their hearts and 
they allowed me to come in. The rain poured down 
in heavy, obUque lines. 

[173] 



Andalusia 

The labourer took Aguador to the stable and I 
went into the parlour, a long, low, airy chamber like 
the refectory of a monastery, with windows reach- 
ing to the ground. Two girls were sitting round the 
brasero, sewing; they offered me a chair by their 
side, and as the rain fell steadily we began to talk. 
The old woman discreetly remained away. They 
asked me about my journey, and as is the Spanish 
mode, about my country, myself, and my belong- 
ings. It was a regular volley of questions I had 
to answer, but they sounded pleasanter in the mouth 
of a pretty girl than in that of an obese old skinner; 
and the rippling laughter which greeted my replies 
made me feel quite witty. When they smiled they 
showed the whitest teeth. Then came my turn for 
questioning. The girl on my right, prettier than 
her sister, was very Spanish, with black, expressive 
eyes, an olive skin, and a bunch of violets in her 
abundant hair. I asked whether she had a novio, 
or lover; and the question set her laughing immod- 
erately. What was her name? " Soledad — Sol- 
itude." 

I looked somewhat anxiously at the weather, I 
feared the shower would cease, and in a minute, 
alas! the rain passed away; and I was forced to 
notice it, for the sun-rays came dancing through the 
window, importunately, making patterns of light 
upon the floor. I had no further excuse to stay, 
and said good-bye; but I begged for the bunch of 

[174] 



Wind and Storm 
violets in Soledad's dark hair and slie gave it with 
a pretty smile. I plunged again into the endless 
olive-groves. 

It was a little strange, the momentary irruption 
into other people's lives, the friendly gossip with 
persons of a different tongue and country, whom I 
had never seen before, whom I should never see 
again; and were I not strictly truthful I might here 
lighten my narrative by the invention of a charming 
and romantic adventure. But if chance brings us 
often for a moment into other existences, it takes 
us out with equal suddenness so that we scarcely 
know whether they were real or mere imaginings of 
an idle hour: the Fates have a passion for the unfin- 
ished sketch and seldom trouble to unravel the 
threads which they have so laboriously entangled. 
The little scene brought another to my mind. When 
I was " on accident duty " at St. Thomas's Hospi- 
tal a man brought his son with a broken leg; it was 
hard luck on the little chap, for he was seated 
peacefully on the ground when another boy, climb- 
ing a wall, fell on him and did the damage. When 
I returned him, duly bandaged, to his father's arms, 
the child bent forward and put out his lips for a 
kiss, saying good-night with babyish pronunciation. 
The father and the attendant nurse laughed, and I, 
being young, was confused and blushed profusely. 
They went away and somehow or other I never saw 
them again. I wonder if the pretty child, (he must 

[175] 



Andalusia 

be eight or ten now,) remembers kissing a very 
weary medical student, who had not slept much for 
several days, and was dead tired. Probably he has 
quite forgotten that he ever broke his leg. And I 
suppose no recollection remains with the pretty girl 
In the farm of a foreigner riding mysteriously 
through the olive-groves, to whom she gave shelter 
and a bunch of violets. 

I came at last to the end of the trees and found 
then that a mighty wind had risen, which blew 
straight In my teeth. It was hard work to ride 
against It, but I saw a white town In the distance, on 
a hill; and made for It, rejoicing in the prospect. 
Presently I met some men shooting, and to make 
sure, asked whether the houses I saw really were 
Marchena. 

" Oh no," said one. " You've come quite out 
of the way. That Is Fuentes. Marchena Is over 
there, beyond the hill." 

My heart sank, for I was growing very hungry, 
and I asked whether I could not get shelter at 
Fuentes. They shrugged their shoulders and ad- 
vised me to go to Marchena, which had a small Inn. 
I went on for several hours, battling against the 
wind, bent down In order to expose myself as Httle 
as possible, over a huge expanse of pasture land, a 
desert of green. I reached the crest of the hill, 
but there was no sign of Marchena, unless that was 

[176] 



Wind and Storm 

a tower which I saw very far away, Its summit just 
rising above the horizon. 

I was ravenous. My saddle-bags contained 
spaces for a bottle and for food; and I cursed my 
folly in stuffing them with such useless refinements 
of civilisation as hair-brushes and soap. It is pos- 
sible that one could allay the pangs of hunger with 
soap; but under no imaginable circumstances with 
hair-brushes. 

It was a tower In the distance, but it seemed to 
grow neither nearer nor larger; the wind blew with- 
out pity, and miserably Aguador tramped on. I no 
longer felt very hungry, but dreadfully bored. In 
that waste of greenery the only living things beside 
myself were a troop of swallows that had accom- 
panied me for miles. They flew close to the ground. 
In front of me, circling round; and the wind was so 
high that they could scarcely advance against it. 

I remembered the skinner's question, why I rode 
through the country when I could go by train. I 
thought of the Cheshire Cheese In Fleet Street, 
where persons more fortunate than I had that day 
eaten hearty luncheons. I Imagined to myself a well- 
grilled steak with boiled potatoes, and a pint of old 
ale, Stilton ! The smoke rose to my nostrils. 

But at last, the Saints be praised! I found a real 
bridle-path, signs of civilisation, ploughed fields; 
and I came in sight of Marchena perched on a hill- 
top, surrounded by Its walls. When I arrived the 
sun was setting finely behind the town. 
[177] 



XXXI: Two Villages 



Marchena was all white, and on the cold windy 
even I spent there, deserted of inhabitants. Quite 
rarely a man sidled past wrapped to the eyes in his 
cloak, or a woman with a black shawl over her head. 
I saw in the town nothing characteristic but the 
wicker-work frame in front of each window, so that 
people within could not possibly be seen; it was ev- 
idently a Moorish survival. At night men came into 
the eating-room of the inn, ate their dinner silently, 
and muffling themselves, quickly went out; the cold 
seemed to have killed all life in them. I slept in 
a little windowless cellar, on a straw bed which was 
somewhat verminous. 

But next morning, as I looked back, the view of 
Marchena was charming. It stood on the crest of 
a green hill, surrounded by old battlements, and the 
sun shone down upon it. The wind had fallen, and 
in the early hour the air was pleasant and balmy. 
There was no road whatever, not even a bridle- 
track this time, and I made straight for Seville. I 
proposed to rest my horse and lunch at Mairena. 
On one side was a great plain of young corn stretch- 
ing to the horizon, and on the other, with the same 
mantle of green, little hills, round which I slowly 

[178] 



Two Villages 

wound. The sun gave all manner of varied tints 
to the verdure — sometimes it was all emerald and 
gold, and at others it was like dark green velvet. 

But the clouds in the direction of Seville were very 
black, and coming nearer I saw that it rained upon 
the hills. The water fell on the earth like a trans- 
parent sheet of grey. Soon I felt an occasional 
drop, and I put on my poncho. 

The rain began in earnest, no northern drizzle, 
but a streaming downpour that soaked me to the 
skin. The path became marsh-like, and Aguador 
splashed along at a walk; it was impossible to go 
faster. The rain pelted down, blinding me. Then, 
oddly enough, for the occasion hardly warranted 
such high-flown thoughts, I felt suddenly the utter 
helplessness of man: I had never before realised 
with such completeness his insignificance beside the 
might of Nature; alone, with not a soul in sight, 
I felt strangely powerless. The plain flaunted it- 
self insolently in face of my distress, and the hills 
raised their heads with a scornful pride; they met 
the rain as equals, but me it crushed; I felt as though 
it would beat me down into the mire. I fell into a 
passion with the elements, and was seized with a de- 
sire to strike out. But the white sheet of water 
was senseless and impalpable, and I relieved myself 
by raging inwardly at the fools who complain of civ- 
ilisation and of railway-trains; they have never 
walked for hours foot-deep in mud, terrified lest 
[179] 



Andalusia 

their horse should slip, with the rain falling as 
though it would never cease. 

The path led me to a river; there was a ford, but 
the water was very high, and rushed and foamed 
like a torrent. Ignorant of the depth and mistrust- 
ful, I trotted up-stream a Httle, seeking shallower 
parts; but none could be seen, and it was no use to 
look for a bridge. I was bound to cross, and I had 
to risk it: my only consolation was that even if 
Aguador could not stand, I was already so wet that 
I could hardly get wetter. The good horse required 
some persuasion before he would enter; the water 
rushed and bubbled and rapidly became deeper; he 
stopped and tried to turn back, but I urged him on. 
My feet went under water, and soon it was up to 
my knees; then, absurdly, it struck me as rather 
funny, and I began to laugh ; I could not help think- 
ing how foolish I should look and feel on arriving 
at the other side, if I had to swim for it. But im- 
mediately it grew shallower; all my adventures tailed 
off thus unheroically just when they began to grow 
exciting, and in a minute I was on comparatively 
dry land. 

I went on, still with no view of Mairena; but I 
was coming nearer. I met a group of women walk- 
ing with their petticoats over their heads. I passed 
a labourer sheltered behind a hedge, while his oxen 
stood In a field, looking miserably at the rain. Still 
it fell, still it fell ! 

[i8o] 



Two Villages 

And when I reached Mairena it was the most 
cheerless place I had come across on my journey, 
merely a poverty-stricken hamlet that did not even 
boast a bad inn. I was directed from place to place 
before I could find a stable; I was soaked to the 
skin, and there seemed no shelter. At last I dis- 
covered a wretched wine-shop; but the woman who 
kept it said there was no fire and no food. Then 
I grew very cross. I explained with heat that I had 
money; it is true I was bedraggled and disreputable, 
but when I showed some coins, to prove that I 
could pay for what I bought, she asked unwillingly 
what I required. I ordered a brasero, and dried my 
clothes as best I could by the burning cinders. I 
ate a scanty meal of eggs, and comforted myself 
with the thin wine of the leaf, sufficiently alcoholic 
to be exhilarating, and finally, with aguardiente re- 
gained my equilibrium. 

But the elements were against me. The rain had 
ceased while I lunched, but no sooner had I left 
Mairena than it began again, and Seville was six- 
teen miles away. It poured steadily. I tramped up 
the hills, covered with nut-trees; I wound down into 
valleys; the way seemed interminable. I tramped 
on. At last from the brow of a hill I saw in the 
distance the Giralda and the clustering houses of 
Seville, but all grey in the wet; above it heavy 
clouds were lowering. On and on ! 

The day was declining, and Seville now was almost 
[i8i] 



Andalusia 

hidden in the mist, but I reached a road. I came 
to the first tavern of the environs; after a while to 
the first houses, then the road gave way to sHppery 
cobbles, and I was in Seville. The Saints be praised ! 



[182] 



XXXII: Granada 

To go from Seville to Granada is like coming 
out of the sunshine into deep shadow. I arrived, 
my mind full of Moorish pictures, expecting to find 
a vivid, tumultuous life; and I was ready with a 
prodigal hand to dash on the colours of my admira- 
tion. But Granada is a sad town, grey and empty; 
its people meander, melancholy, through the streets, 
unoccupied. It is a tradeless place living on the 
monuments which attract strangers, and like many a 
city famous for stirring history, seems utterly ex- 
hausted. Granada gave me an impression that it 
wished merely to be left alone to drag out its re- 
maining days in peace, away from the advance of 
civilisation and the fervid hurrying of progress : it 
seemed like a great adventuress retired from the 
world after a life of vicissitude, anxious only to be 
forgotten, and after so much storm and stress to be 
nothing more than pious. There must be many de- 
scendants of the Moors, but the present population 
is wan and lifeless. They are taciturn, sombre folk, 
with nothing in them of the chattering and vivacious 
creatures of Arab history. Indeed, as I wandered 
through the streets, it was not the Moors that en- 
[183] 



Andalusia 

gaged my mind, but rather Ferdinand of Arragon 
and Isabella of Castille. Their grim strength over- 
powered the more graceful shadows of Moordom; 
and it was only by an effort that I recalled Gazul 
and Musa, most gallant and amorous of Paynim 
knights, tilting in the square, displaying incredible 
valour in the slaughter of savage bulls. I thought 
of the Catholic Kings, in full armour, riding with 
clank of steel through the captured streets. And 
the snowy summits of the Sierra Nevada, dazzling 
sometimes under the sun and the blue sky, but more 
often veiled with mist and capped by heavy clouds, 
grim and terrifying, lent a sort of tragic interest to 
the scene; so that I felt those grey masses, with their 
cloak of white, (they seemed near enough to over- 
whelm one,) made it impossible for the town built 
at their very feet, to give itself over altogether to 
flippancy. 

And for a while I found little of interest in Gran- 
ada but the Alhambra. The gipsy quarter, with 
neither beauty, colour, nor even a touch of barbar- 
ism, is a squalid, brutal place, consisting of little 
dens built in the rock of the mountain which stands 
opposite the Alhambra. Worse than hovels, they 
are the lairs of wild beasts, foetid and oppressive, 
inhabited by debased creatures, with the low fore- 
head, the copper skin, and the shifty cruel look of 
the Spanish gipsy. They surround the visitor in 
their rags and tatters, clamouring for alms, and for 
[184] 



Granada 

exorbitant sums proposing to dance. Even In the 
slums of great cities I have not seen a life more bes- 
tial. I tried to imagine what sort of existence these 
people led. In the old days the rock-dwellings 
among the cactus served the gipsies for winter quar- 
ters only, and when the spring came they set off, 
scouring the country for something to earn or steal; 
but that Is long ago. For two generations they have 
remained in these hovels — year in, year out — em- 
ployed in shoeing horses, shearing, and the like 
menial occupations which the Spaniard thinks be- 
neath his dignity. The women tell fortunes, or 
dance for the foreigner, or worse. It is a mere 
struggle for daily bread. I wondered whether in 
the spring-time the young men loved the maidens, 
or if they only coupled like the beasts. I saw one 
pair who seemed quite newly wed; for their scanty 
furniture was new and they were young. The man, 
short and squat, sat scowling, cross-legged on a chair, 
a cigarette between his lips. The woman was taller 
and not ill-made, a slattern; her hair fell dishevelled 
on her back and over her forehead; her dress was 
open, displaying the bosom; her apron was filthy. 
But when she smiled, asking for money, her teeth 
were white and regular, and her eyes flashed darkly. 
She was attractive in a heavy sensual fashion, at- 
tractive and at the same time horribly repellant: 
she was the sort of woman who might fetter a man 
to herself by some degrading, insuperable passion, 
[185] 



Andalusia 

the true Carmen of the famous story whom a man 
might at once love and hate; so that though she 
dragged him to hell in shame and in despair, he 
would never find the strength to free himself. But 
where among that bastard race was the splendid de- 
sire for freedom of their fathers, the love of the 
fresh air of heaven and the untrammeled life of the 
fields? 

At first glance also the cathedral seemed devoid 
of charm. I suppose travellers seek emotions in 
the things they see, and often the more beautiful ob- 
jects do not give the most vivid sensations. Paint- 
ers complain that men of letters have written chiefly 
of second-rate pictures, but the literary sentiment 
is different from the artistic; and a masterpiece 
of Perugino may excite it less than a mediocre work 
of Guido Reni. 

The cathedral of Granada is said by the excellent 
Fergusson to be the most noteworthy example in 
Europe of early Renaissance architecture; its pro- 
portions are evidently admirable, and it is designed 
and carried out according to all the canons of the 
art. " Looking at its plan only," he says, " this is 
certainly one of the finest churches in Europe. It 
would be difficult to point out any other, in which 
the central aisle leads up to the dome, so well pro- 
portioned to its dimensions, and to the dignity of 
the high altar which stands under it." But though 
I vaguely recognised these perfections, though the 
[i86] 



Granada 

spacing appeared fine and simple, and the columns 
had a certain majesty, I was left more than a little 
cold. The whitewash with which the interior is 
coated gives an unsympathetic impression, and the 
abundant light destroys that mystery which the 
poorest, gaudiest Spanish church almost invariably 
possesses. In the Capilla de los Reyes are the 
elaborate mouments of the Catholic Kings, of their 
daughter Joan the Mad, and of Philip her husband; 
below, in the crypt, are four simple coffins, in which 
after so much grandeur, so much joy and sorrow, 
they rest. Indeed, for the two poor women who 
loved without requite, it was a life of pain almost un- 
reheved: it is a pitiful story, for all its magnificence, 
of Joan with her fiery passion for the handsome, 
faithless, worthless husband, and her mad jealousy; 
and of Isabella, with patient strength bearing every 
cross, always devoted to the man who tired of her 
quickly, and repaid her deep affection with naught 
but coldness and distrust. 

Queen Isabella's sword and sceptre are shown in 
the sacristy, and in contrast with the implement of 
war a beautiful cope, worked with her royal hands. 
And her crown also may be seen, one of the few I 
have come across which might really become the 
wearer, of silver, a masterpiece of delicate crafts- 
manship. 

But presently, returning to the cathedral and sit- 
ting in front of the high altar, I became at last 
[187] 



Andalusia 

conscious of its airy, restful grace. The chancel is 
very lofty. The base is a huge arcade which gives 
an effect of great Hghtness; and above are two rows 
of pictures, and still higher two rows of painted 
windows. The coloured glass throws the softest 
lights upon the altar and on the marble floor, ren- 
dering even quieter the low tints of the pictures". 
These are a series of illustrations of the life of the 
Blessed Virgin, painted by Alonzo Cano, a native of 
Valladolid, who killed his wife and came to Gran- 
ada, whereupon those in power made him a preb- 
endary. In the obscurity I could not see the paint- 
ings, but divined soft and pleasant things after the 
style of Murillo, and doubtless that was better than 
actually to see them. The pulpits are gorgeously 
carved in wood, and from the walls fly great angels 
with fine turbulence of golden drapery. And in 
the contrast of the soft white stone with the gold, 
which not even the most critical taste could com- 
plain was too richly spread, there is a delicate, fas- 
cinating lightness : the chancel has almost an Italian 
gaiety, which comes upon one oddly in the gloomy 
town. Here the decoration, the gilded virgins, the 
elaborate carving, do not oppress as elsewhere; the 
effect is too debonair and too refreshing. It is one 
colour more, one more distinction, in the complexity 
of the religious sentiment. 

But if what I have said of Granada seems cold, it 
[i88] 



Granada 

Is because I did not easily catch the spirit of the 
place. For when you merely observe and admire 
some view, and If Industrious make a note of your 
impression, and then go home to luncheon, you are 
but a vulgar tripper, scum of the earth, deserving 
the ridicule with which the natives treat you. The 
romantic spirit Is your only justification; when by 
the comeliness of your life or the beauty of your 
emotion you have attained that, (Shelley when he 
visited Paestum had It, but Theophile Gautler, flaunt- 
ing his red waiscoat trus los montes, was perhaps 
no better than a Cook's tourist,) then you are no 
longer unworthy of the loveliness which it Is your 
privilege to see. When the old red brick and the 
green trees say to you hidden things, and the vega 
and the mountains are stretched before you with a 
new significance, when at last the white houses with 
their brown tiles, and the labouring donkey, and the 
peasant at his plough, appeal to you so as to make, 
as it were, an exquisite pattern on your soul, then you 
may begin to find excuses for yourself. But you 
may see places long and often before they are thus 
magically revealed to you, and for myself I caught 
the real emotion of Granada but once, when from 
the Generalife I looked over the valley, the Gener- 
alife in which are mingled perhaps more admirably 
than anywhere else in Andalusia all the charm of 
Arabic architecture, of running water, and of cy- 
press trees, of purple flags and dark red roses. It 
[189] 



Andalusia 

Is a spot, indeed, fit for the plaintive creatures of 
poets to sing their loves, for Paolo and Francesca, 
for Juliet and Romeo; and I am glad that there I 
enjoyed such an exquisite moment. 



[190] 



XXXIII: TheAlhambra 

From the church of San Nicolas, on the other 
side of the valley, the Alhambra, like all Moorish 
buildings externally very plain, with its red walls 
and low, tiled roofs, looks like some old charter- 
house. Encircled by the fresh green of the spring- 
time, it lies along the summit of the hill with an in- 
finite, most simple grace, dun and brown and deep 
red; and from the sultry wall on which I sat the 
elm-trees and the poplars seemed very cool. Thirs- 
tily, after the long drought, the Darro, the Arab 
stream which ran scarlet with the blood of Moorish 
strife, wound its way over its stony bed among the 
hills; and beyond, in strange contrast with all the 
fertility, was the grey and silent grandeur of the 
Sierra Nevada. Few places can be more charming 
than the green wood in which stands the stronghold 
of the Moorish kings; the wind sighs among the top- 
most branches and all about is the sweet sound of 
running water; In spring the ground is carpeted with 
violets, and the heavy foliage gives an enchanting 
coldness. A massive gateway, flanked by watch- 
towers, forms the approach; but the actual entrance, 
offering no hint of the incredible magnificence within, 
is an insignificant door. 

[191] 



Andalusia 

But then, then you are immediately transported 
to a magic palace, existing in some uncertain age of 
fancy, which does not seem the work of human 
hands, but rather of Jin, an enchanted dwelling of 
seven lovely damsels. It is barely conceivable that 
historical persons inhabited such a place. At the 
same time it explains the wonderful civilisation of 
the Moors in Spain, with their fantastic battles, 
their songs and strange histories; and it brings the 
Arabian Nights Into the bounds of sober reality: 
after he has seen the Alhambra none can doubt the 
hteral truth of the stories of Sinbad the Sailor and 
of Hasan of Bassorah. 

From the terrace that overlooks the city you enter 
the Court of Myrtles — a long pool of water with 
goldfish swimming to and fro, enclosed by myrtle 
hedges. At the ends are arcades, borne by marble 
columns with capitals of surpassing beauty. It is 
very quiet and very restful; the placid water gives an 
indescribable sensation of delight, and at the end 
mirrors the slender columns and the decorated arches 
so that in reflection you see the entrance to a second 
palace, which is filled with mysterious, beautiful 
things. But in the Alhambra the imagination finds 
itself at last out of its depth, it cannot conjure up 
chambers more beautiful than the reality presents. 
It serves only to recall the old inhabitants to the 
deserted halls. 

[192] 



The Alhambra 

The Moors continually used inscriptions with 
great effect, and there is one in this court which sur- 
passes all others in its oriental imagery, in praise of 
Mohammed V. : Thou givest safety from the breeze 
to the blades of grass, and inspirest terror in the 
very stars of heaven. When the shining stars 
quiver, it is through dread of thee, and when the 
grass of the field bends down it is to give thee thanks. 

But it is the Hall of the Ambassadors which shows 
most fully the unparalleled splendour of Moorish 
decoration. It is a square room, very lofty, with 
alcoves on three sides, at the bottom of which are 
windows; and the walls are covered, from the dado 
of tiles to the roof, with the richest and most varied 
ornamentation. The Moorish workmen did not 
spare themselves nor economise their exuberant in- 
vention. One pattern follows another with infinite 
diversity. Even the alcoves, and there are nine, are 
covered each with different designs, so that the mind 
Is bewildered by their graceful ingenuity. -All kinds 
of geometrical figures are used, enlacing with grace- 
ful intricacy. Intersecting, combining and dissolving; 
conventional fohage and fruit, Arabic inscriptions. 
An industrious person has counted more than one 
hundred and fifty patterns in the Hall of the Am- 
bassadors, impressed with iron moulds on the moist 
plaster of the walls. The roof is a low dome of 
larch wood, intricately carved and inlaid with Ivory 
and with mother-of-pearl; it has been likened to the 

[193] 



Andalusia 

faceted surface of an elaborately cut gem. The 
effect is so gorgeous that you are oppressed; you 
long for some perfectly plain space whereon to rest 
the eye ; but every inch is covered. 

Now the walls have preserved only delicate tints 
of red and blue, pale Wedgwood blues and faded 
terracottas, that make with the ivory of the plaster 
most exquisite harmonies; but to accord with the 
tiles, their brilliancy still undiminished, the colours 
must have been very bright. The complicated pat- 
terns and the gay hues reproduce the oriental car- 
pets of the nomad's tent; for from the tent, it is said, 
(I know not with what justification,) all oriental 
architecture is derived. The fragile columns upon 
which rest masses of masonry are, therefore, direct 
imitations of tent-poles, and the stalactite borders 
of the arches represent the fringe of the woven 
hangings. The Moorish architect paid no attention 
to the rules of architecture, and it has been well said 
that if they existed for him at all it was only that 
he might elaborately disregard them. His columns 
generally support nothing; his arcades, so delicately 
worked that they seem like carved ivory, are of the 
lightest wood and plaster. 

And it is curious that there should be such dura- 
bility in those dainty materials : they express well the 
fatalism of the luxurious Moor, to whom the past 
and future were as nothing, and the transient hour 
all in all; yet they have outlasted him and his con- 
[194] 



The Alhamhra 

queror. The Spaniard, inglorious and decayed, is 
now but the showman to this magnificence; time 
has seen his greatness come and go, as came and 
went the greatness of the Moor, but still, for all its 
fragility, the Alhambra stands hardly less beautiful. 
Travellers have always been astonished at the small 
size of the Alhambra, especially of the Court of 
Lions; for here, though the proportion is admirable 
the scale is tiny; and many have supposed that the 
Moors were of less imposing physique than modern 
Europeans. The Court is surrounded by exquisite 
little columns, singly, in twos, in threes, supporting 
horse-shoe arches; and in the centre is that beautiful 
fountain, borne by twelve lions with bristly manes, 
standing very stiffly, whereon is the inscription: O 
thou who beholdest these lions crouching, fear not. 
Life is wanting to enable them to show their fury. 
Indeed, their surroundings have such a delicate 
and playful grace that it is hard to believe the Moors 
had any of our strenuous, latter-day passions. Lif,e 
must have been to them a masque rather than a 
tragi-comedy; and whether they belong to sober 
history or no, those contests of which the curious 
may read in the lively pages of Gines Perez de Hita 
accord excellently with the fanciful environment. 
In the Alhambra nothing seems more reasonable 
than those never-ending duels in which, for a lady's 
favour, gallant knights gave one another such blows 
that the air rang with them, such wounds that the 
[195] 



Andalusia 

ground was red with blood; but at sunset they sepa- 
rated and bound up their wounds and returned to 
the palace. And the king, at the relation of the 
adventure, was filled with amazement and with great 
content. 

Yet, notwithstanding, I find in the Alhambra 
something unsatisfying; for many an inferior piece of 
architecture has set my mind a-working so that I 
have dreamed charming dreams, or seen vividly the 
life of other times. But here, I know not why, my 
imagination helps me scarcely at all. The existence 
led within these gorgeous walls is too remote; there 
is but little to indicate the thoughts, the feehngs, of 
these people, and one can take the Alhambra only as 
a thing of beauty, and despair to understand. 

I know that it is useless to attempt with words to 
give an idea of these numerous chambers and courts. 
A string of superlatives can do no more than tire the 
reader, an exact description can only confuse; nor is 
the painter able to give more than a suggestion of 
the bewildering charm. The effect is too emotional 
to be conveyed from man to man, and each must feel 
it for himself. Charles V. called him unhappy who 
had lost such treasure — desgraciado el que tal 
perdio — and showed his own appreciation by demol- 
ishing a part to build a Renaissance palace for him- 
self ! It appears that kings have not received from 
heaven with their right divine to govern wrong the 
[196] 



The Alhamhra 

inestimable gift of good taste ; and for tiiem possibly 
it is fortunate, since when, perchance, a sovereign 
has the artistic temperament, a discerning people — 
cuts off his head. 



[197] 



XXXIV: Boabdil the Unlucky 

He was indeed unhappy who lost such treasure. 
The plain of Granada smiles with luxuriant crops, a 
beautiful country, gay with a hundred colours, and 
in summer when the corn is ripe it burns with vivid 
gold. The sun shines with fiery rays from the blue 
sky, and from the snow-capped mountains cool 
breezes temper the heat. 

But from his cradle Boabdil was unfortunate; 
soothsayers prophesied that his reign would see the 
downfall of the Moorish power, and his every step 
tended to that end. Never in human existence was 
more evident the mysterious power of the three sis- 
ters, the daughters of Night; the Fates had spun his 
destiny, they placed the pitfalls before his feet and 
closed his eyes that he might not see; they hid from 
him the way of escape. Allah Achhar! It was 
destiny. In no other way can be explained the mad- 
ness which sped the victims of that tragedy to their 
ruin; for with the enemy at their very gates, the 
Muslims set up and displaced kings, plotted and 
counterplotted. Boabdil was twice deposed and 
twice regained the throne. Even when the Christian 
kingdoms had united to consume the remnant of 
[198] 



Boabdil the Unlucky 
Moorish sovereignty the Moors could not cease their 
quarrelling. Boabdil looked on with satisfaction 
while the territory of the rival claimant to his crown 
was wrested from him, and did n-ot understand that 
his turn must inevitably follow. Verily, the gods, 
wishing to destroy him, had deranged his mind. It 
is a pitiful history of treachery and folly that was 
enacted while the Catholic Sovereigns devoured the 
pomegranate, seed by seed. 

To me history, with its hopes bound to be frus- 
trated and its useless efforts, sometimes is so terrible 
that I can hardly read. I feel myself like one who 
lives, knowing the inevitable future, and yet is power- 
less to help. I see the acts of the poor human pup- 
pets, and know the disaster that must follow. I 
wonder if the Calvinists ever realised the agony of 
that dark God of theirs, omniscient and yet so 
strangely weak, to whom the eternal majesty of 
heaven was insufficient to save the predestined from 
everlasting death. 

On March 22, 1491, began the last siege of 
Granada. 

Ferdinand marched his army into the plain and 
began to destroy the crops, taking one by one the 
surrounding towns. He made no attempt upon the 
city itself, and hostilities were confined to skirmishes 
beneath the walls and single combats between Chris- 
tian knights and Muslim cavaliers, wherein on either 
[199] 



Andalusia 

side prodigies of valour were performed. Through 
the summer the Moors were able to get provisions 
from the Sierra Nevada, but when, with winter, the 
produce of the earth grew less and its conveyance 
more difficult, famine began to make itself felt. The 
Moors consoled themselves with the hope that the 
besieging army would retire with the cold weather, 
for such in those days was the rule of warfare ; but 
Ferdinand was in earnest. When an accidental fire 
burned his camp, he built him a town of solid stone 
and mortar, which he named Santa Fe. It stands 
still, the only town in Spain wherein a Moorish foot 
has never trod. Then the Muslims understood at 
last that the Spaniard would never again leave that 
fruitful land. 

And presently they began to talk of surrender; 
Spanish gold worked its way with Boabdil's coun- 
cillors, and before winter was out the capitulation 
was signed. 

On the second day of the new year the final scene 
of the tragedy was acted. Early in the morning, 
before break of day, Boabdil had sent his mother 
and his wife with the treasure to precede him to the 
Alpuxarras, in which district, by the conditions of 
the treaty, Ferdinand had assigned him a little king- 
dom. Himself had one more duty to perform, and 
at the prearranged hour he sallied forth with a 
wretched escort of fifty knights. On the Spanish 
side the night had been spent in joy and feasting; 
[200] 



Boabdil the Unlucky 

but how must Boabdil have spent his, thinking of the 
inevitable morrow? To him the hours must have 
sped like minutes. What must have been the agony 
of his last look at the Alhambra, that jewel of in- 
calculable price? Mendoza, the cardinal, had been 
sent forward to occupy the palace, and Boabdil 
passed him on the hill. 

Soon he reached Ferdinand, who was stationed 
near a mosque surrounded by all the glory of his 
Court, pennons flying, and knights in their magnifi- 
cent array. Boabdil would have thrown himself 
from his horse in sign of homage to kiss the hand of 
the king of Arragon, but Ferdinand prevented him. 
Then Boabdil delivered the keys of the Alhambra 
to the victor, saying: " They are thine, O king, since 
Allah so decrees it; use thy success with clemency 
and moderation." Moving on sadly he saluted Isa- 
bella, and passed to rejoin his family; the Christians 
processioned to the city with psalm-singing. 

But when Boabdil was crossing the mountains he 
turned to look at the city he had lost, and burst into 
tears. 

" You do well," said his mother, " to weep like 
a woman for what you could not defend like a man." 

"Alas! " he cried, "when were woes ever equal 
to mine?" 

It was not to be expected that the pious Kings of 
Castille and Arragon would keep their word, and 
means were soon invented to hound the wretched 
[201] 



Andalusia 

Boabdil from the principality they had granted. 
He crossed to Africa, and settled in Fez, of which 
the Sultan was his kinsman. It is pathetic to learn 
that there he built himself a palace in imitation of 
the Alhambra. At last, after many years, he was 
killed in an obscure battle fighting against the Sul- 
tan's rebels, and the Arab historian finishes the ac- 
count of him with these words: "Wretched man! 
who could lose his life in another's cause, though he 
dared not die in his own ! Such was the immutable 
decree of destiny. Blessed be Allah, who exalteth 
and abaseth the kings of the earth according to His 
divine will, in the fulfilment of which consists that 
eternal justice which regulates all human affairs." 

In the day of El Makkary, the historian of the 
Moorish Empire, Boabdil's descendants had so fallen 
that they were nothing but common beggars, sub- 
sisting upon the charitable allowances made to the 
poor from the funds of the mosques. 

One generation passeth away and another genera- 
tion Cometh: but the earth abide th for ever. 



[202] 



XXXV: Los Pobres 

People say that in Granada the beggars are more 
importunate than in any other Spanish town, but 
throughout Andalusia their pertinacity and number 
are amazing. They are licensed by the State, and 
the brass badge they wear makes them demand alms 
almost as a right. It is curious to find that the 
Spaniard, who is by no means a charitable being, 
gives very often to beggars — perhaps from super- 
stitious motives, thinking their prayers will be of 
service, or fearing the evil eye, which may punish 
a refusal. Begging is quite an honourable profes- 
sion in Spain; mendicants are charitably termed the 
poor, and not. besmirched, as in England, with an 
opprobrious name. 

I have never seen so many beggars as in Anda- 
lusia ; at every church door there will be a dozen, and 
they stand or sit at each street corner, halt, lame and 
blind. Every possible deformity is paraded to 
arouse charity. Some look as though their eyes had 
been torn out, and they glare at you with horrible 
bleeding sockets; most indeed are blind, and you 
seldom fail to hear their monotonous cry, sometimes 
naming the saint's day to attract particular persons: 
[203] 



Andalusia 

" Alms for the love of God, for a poor blind man 
on this the day of St. John ! " They stand from 
morning till night, motionless, with hand extended, 
repeating the words as the sound of footsteps tells 
them some one is approaching; and then, as a coin 
is put in their hands, say gracefully: *' Dios se lo 
pagara! God will repay you ! " 

In Spain you do not pass silently when a beggar 
demands alms, but pray his mercy for God's love to 
excuse you: '' Perdone listed por el amor de Diosf " 
Or else you beseech God to protect him: " Dios le 
ampare!" And the mendicant, coming to your 
gate, sometimes invokes the Immaculate Virgin. 

" Ave Maria purissimaf " he calls. 

And you, tired of giving, reply: " Y por siempre! 
And for ever." 

He passes on, satisfied with your answer, and 
rings at the next door. 

It is not only in Burgos that Theophile Gautier 
might have admired the beggar's divine rags; every- 
where they wrap their cloaks about them in the same 
magnificent fashion. The capa, I suppose, is the 
most graceful of all the garments of civilised man, 
and never more so then when it barely holds together, 
a mass of rags and patches, stained by the rain and 
bleached by the sun and wind. It hangs straight 
from the neck in big simple lines, or else is flung 
over one shoulder with a pompous wealth of folds. 

There is a strange immobility about Andalusian 
[204] 



Los Pobres 

beggars which recalls their Moorish ancestry. They 
remain for hours in the same attitude, without mov- 
ing a muscle; and one I knew in Seville stood day 
after day, from early morning till midnight, with 
hand outstretched in the same rather crooked posi- 
tion, never saying a word, but merely trusting to the 
passerby to notice. The variety is amazing, men 
and women and children; and Seville at fair-time, 
or when the foreigners are coming for Holy Week, 
is like an enormous hospital. Mendicants assail you 
on all sides, the legless dragging themselves on their 
hands, the halt running towards you with a crutch, 
the blind led by wife or child, the deaf and dump, the 
idiotic. I remember a woman with dead eyes and 
a huge hydrocephalic head, who sat in a bath-chair 
by one of the cathedral doors, and whenever people 
passed, cried shrilly for money in a high, unnatural 
voice. Sometimes they protrude maimed limbs, feet- 
less legs or arms without hands; they display loath- 
some wounds, horribly inflamed; every variety of 
disease is shown to extort a copper. And so much 
is it a recognised trade that they have their proper- 
ties, as it were: one old man whose legs had been 
shot away, trotted through the narrow streets of 
Seville on a diminutive ass, driving it into the shop- 
doors to demand his mite. Then there are the chil- 
dren, the little boys and girls that Murillo painted, 
barely covered by filthy rags, cherubs with black hair 
and shining eyes, the most importunate of all the 
[205] 



Andalusia 

tribe. The refusal, of a halfpenny Is followed Im- 
pudently by demands for a cigarette, and as a last 
resort for a match; they wander about with keen 
eyes for cigar-ends, and no shred of a smoked leaf 
Is too diminutive for them to get no further use 
from it. 

And beside all these are the blind fiddlers, scrap- 
ing out old-fashioned tunes that were popular thirty 
years ago ; the guitarists, singing the flamenco songs 
which have been sung In Spain ever since the Moor- 
ish days; the buffoons, who extract tunes from a 
broomstick; the owners of performing dogs. 

They are a picturesque lot, neither vicious nor 
ill-humoured. Begging Is a fairly profitable trade," 
and not a very hard one ; in winter el pohre can al- 
ways find a little sunshine, and In summer a little 
shade. It is no hardship for him to sit still all day; 
he would probably do little else if he were a million- 
aire. He looks upon life without bitterness; Fate 
has not been very kind, but it Is certainly better to 
be a live beggar than a dead king, and things might 
have been ten thousand times worse. For Instance, 
he might not have been born a Spaniard, and every 
man in his senses knows that Spain Is the greatest 
nation on earth, while to be born a citizen of some 
other country is the most dreadful misfortune that 
can befall him. He has his licence from the State, 
and a charitable public sees that he does not abso- 
lutely starve; he has cigarettes to smoke — to say 
[206] 



Los Pobres 

that a blind man cannot enjoy tobacco Is evidently 
absurd — and therefore, all these things being so, 
why should he think Hfe such a woeful matter? 
While it lasts the sun is there to shine equally on 
rich and poor, and afterwards will not a paternal 
government find a grave in the public cemetery? It 
is true that the beggar shares it with quite a num- 
ber of worthy persons, doubtless most estimable 
corpses, and his coffin even is but a temporary con- 
veyance — but still, what does it matter? 



[207] 



XXXVI: The Song 

But the Moorish influence is nowhere more ap- 
parent than in the Spanish singing. There is noth- 
ing European in that quavering lament, in those long- 
drawn and monotonous notes, in those weird trills. 
The sounds are strange to the ear accustomed to 
less barbarous harmonies, and at first no melody is 
perceived; it is custom alone which teaches the sad 
and passionate charm of these things. A mala- 
gueha is the particular complaint of the maid sor- 
rowing for an absent lover, of the peasant who 
ploughs his field in the declining day. The long 
notes of such a song, floating across the silence of 
the night, are like a new melody on the great harpsi- 
chord of human sorrow. No emotion is more poign- 
ant than that given by the faint sad sounds of a 
Spanish song as one wanders through the deserted 
streets in the dead of night; or far in the country, 
with the sun setting red in the cloudless sky, when 
the stillness is broken only by the melancholy chant- 
ing of a shepherd among the oHve-trees. 

An heritage of Moordom is the Spanish love for 
the improvisation of well-turned couplets; in olden 
[208] 



The Song 

days a skilful verse might procure the poet a dress of 
cloth-of-gold, and it did on one occasion actually 
raise a beggar-maid to a royal throne ; even now it 
has power to secure the lover his lady's most tender 
smiles, or at the worst a glass of Manzanilla. The 
richness of the language helps him with his rhymes, 
and his southern imagination gives him manifold sub- 
jects. But, being the result of improvisation — no 
lady fair would consider the suit of a gallant who 
could not address her in couplets of his own devis- 
ing — the Spanish song has a peculiar character. 
The various stanzas have no bearing upon one an- 
other; they consist of four or seven lines, but in 
either case each contains its definite sentiment; so 
that one verse may be a complete song, or the singer 
may continue as long as the muse prompts and his 
subject's charms occasion. The Spanish song is like 
a barbaric necklace in which all manner of different 
stones are strung upon a single cord, without thought 
for their mutual congruity. 

Naturally the vast majority of the innumerable 
couplets thus invented are forgotten as soon as sung, 
but now and then the fortuitous excellence of one 
impresses it on the maker's recollection, and it may 
be preserved. Here is an example which has been 
agreeably translated by Mr. J. W. Crombie; but 
neither original nor English rendering can give an 
adequate idea of the charm which depends on the 
oriental melancholy of the music: 
[209] 



Andalusia 

Dos besos tengo en el alma 
Que no se apartan de mi : 
El ultimo de mi madre, 

Y el primero que te di. 

Deep in my soul two kisses rest. 
Forgot they ne'er shall be: 
The last my mother s lips impr'^ssed. 
The first I stole from thee. 

Here is another, the survival of which testifies to 
the Spanish extreme love of a compliment; and the 
somewhat hackneyed sentiment can only have made 
it more pleasant to the feminine ear : 

Saiga el sol, si ha de salir, 

Y si no, que nunca saiga; 
Que para alumbrarme a mi 
La luz de tus ojos basta. 

// the sun care to rise, let him rise, 
But if not, let him ever lie hid; 
For the light from my lady-love's eyes 
Shines forth as the sun never did. 

It is a diverting spectacle to watch a professional 

improviser in the throes of inspiration. This is one 

of the stock " turns " of the Spanish music-hall, and 

one of the most popular. I saw a woman in Gran- 

[210] 



The Song 

ada, who was quite a celebrity; and the barbaric 
wildness of her performance, with its accompani- 
ment of hand-clapping, discordant cries, and twang- 
ing of guitar, harmonised well with my impression 
of the sombre and mediseval city. 

She threaded her way to the stage among the 
crowded tables, through the auditorium, a sallow- 
faced creature, obese and large-boned, with coarse 
features and singularly ropy hair. She was accom- 
panied by a fat small man with a guitar and a woman 
of mature age and ample proportions: it appeared 
that the cultivation of the muse, evidently more 
profitable than in England, conduced to adiposity. 
They stepped on the stage, taking chairs with them, 
for in Spain you do not stand to sing, and were 
greeted with plentiful applause. The little fat man 
began to play the long prelude to the couplet; the 
old woman clapped her hands and occasionally 
uttered a raucous cry. The poetess gazed into the 
air for inspiration. The guitarist twanged on, and 
in the audience there were scattered cries of Ole! 
Her companions began to look at the singer anx- 
iously, for the muse was somewhat slow; and she 
patted her knee and groaned; at last she gave a 
little start and smiled. Ole! Ole! The inspiration 
had come. She gave a moan, which lengthened into 
the characteristic trill, and then began the couplet, 
beating time with her hands. Such an one as this: 

[211] 



Andalusia 

Suspiros que de mi salgan, 
Y otros que de ti saldran, 
Si en el camino se encuentran 
Que de cosas se diran ! 

If all the sighs thy lips now shape 
Could meet upon the way 
With those that from mine own escape 
What things they'd have to say! 

She finished, and all three rose from their chairs 
and withdrew them, but it was only a false exit; im- 
mediately the applause grew clamorous they sat 
down again, and the little fat man repeated his in- 
troduction. 

But this time there was no waiting. The singer 
had noticed a well-known bull-fighter and quickly 
rolled off a couplet In his praise. The subject 
beamed with dehght, and the general enthusiasm 
knew no bounds. The people excitedly threw their 
hats on the stage, and these were followed by a 
shower of coppers, which the performers, more heed- 
ful to the compensation of Art than to Its dignity, 
grovelled to picked up. 

Here is a lover's praise of the whiteness of his 
lady's skin : 

La neve por tu cara 

Paso diciendo: 
En donde no hago falta 

No me detengo. 
[212] 



The Song 

Before thy brow the snow-flakes 

Hurry past and say: 
" Where we are not needed. 

Wherefore should we stay? " 

And this last, like the preceding translated by- 
Mr. Crombie, shows once more how characteristic 
are Murillo's Holy Families of the popular senti- 
ment: 

La Virgen lava la ropa, 
San Jose la esta tendiendo, 
Santa Ana entretiene el nino, 
Y el agua se va riendo. 

The Virgin is washing the clothes at the brook. 
And Saint Joseph hangs them to dry. 
Saint Anna plays with the Holy Babe, 
And the water flows smiling by. 



[213] 



XXXVII: Jerez 



Jerez is the Andalusian sunshine again after the 
dark clouds of Granada. It is a little town in the 
middle of a fertile plain, clean and comfortable and 
spacious. It is one of the richest places in Spain; 
the houses have an opulent look, and without the 
help of Baedeker you may guess that they contain 
respectable persons with incomes, and carriages and 
horses, with -frock-coats and gold watch-chains. I 
like the people of Jerez; their habitual expression 
suggests a consciousness that the Almighty is pleased 
with them, and they without doubt are well content 
with the Almighty. The main street, with its trim 
shops and its cafes, has the air of a French provincial 
town - — an appearance of agreeable ease and dul- 
ness. 

Every building in Jerez is washed with lime, and 
in the sunlight the brillancy is dazzling. You realise 
then that in Seville the houses are not white — al- 
though the general impression is of a white town — 
but, on the contrary, tinted with various colours 
from faintest pink to pale blue, pale green; they 
remind you of the summer dresses of women. The 
soft tones are all mingled with the sunlight and very 
[214] 



Jerez 
restful. But Jerez Is like a white banner floating 
under the cloudless sky, the pure white banner of 
Bacchus raised defiantly against the gaudy dyes of 
teetotalism and Its shrieking trumpets. 

Jerez the White Is, of course, the home of sherry, 
and the whole town Is given over to the preparation 
of the grateful juice. The air Is Impregnated with 
a rich smell. The sun shines down on Jerez ; and Its 
cleanliness, Its prosperity, are a rebuke to harsh- 
voiced contemners of the grape. 

You pass hodega after bodega, cask-factories, 
bottle-factories. A bottle-factory is a curious, in- 
teresting place, an immense barn, sombre, so that 
the eye loses Itself in the shadows of the roof; and 
the scanty light is red and lurid from the furnaces, 
which roar hoarsely and long. Against the glow 
the figures of men, half-naked, move silently, per- 
forming the actions of their craft with a monoton- 
ous regularity which Is strange and solemn. They 
move to and fro, carrying an Iron Instrument on 
which Is the molten mass of red-hot glass, and It 
gleams with an extraordinary warm brilliancy. It 
twists hither and thither in obedience to the ar- 
tisan's deft movements ; It coils and writhes Into odd 
shapes, like a fire-snake curUng in the torture of its 
own unearthly ardour. The men pass so regularly, 
with such a silent and exact precision, that it seems 
a weird and mystic measure they perform — a rhyth- 
mic dance of unimaginable intricacy, whose meaning 

[215] 



Andalusia 

you cannot gather and whose harmony escapes you. 
The flames leap and soar in a thousand savage forms, 
and their dull thunder fills your ears with a confusion 
of sound. Your eyes become accustomed to the 
dimness, and you discern more clearly the features 
of those swarthy men, bearded and gnome-like. 
But the molten mass has been put into the mould; 
you watch it withdrawn, the bottom indented, the 
mouth cut and shaped. And now it is complete, but 
still red-hot, and glowing with an infernal trans- 
parency, gem-like and wonderful; it is a bottle fit 
now for the juice of satanic vineyards, and the mirac- 
ulous potions of eternal youth, for which men in the 
old days bartered their immortal souls. 

And the effect of a hodega is picturesque, too, 
though in a different way. It is a bright and cheer- 
ful spot, a huge shed with whitewashed walls and an 
open roof supported by dark beams; great casks are 
piled up, impressing you in their vast rotundity with 
a sort of aldermanic stateliness. The whole place is 
fragrant with clean, vinous perfumes. Your guide 
carries a glass and a long' filler. You taste wine 
after wine, in different shades of brown; light wines 
to drink with your dinner, older wines to drink be- 
fore your coffee ; wines more than a century old, of 
which the odour is more delicate than violets; new 
wines of the preceding year, strong and rough; 
Amontillados, with the softest flavour in the world; 
Manzanillas for the gouty; Marsalas, heavy and 
[216] 



Jerez 
sweet; wines that smell of wild-flowers; cheap wines 
and expensive wines. Then the brandies — the dis- 
tiller tells you proudly that Spanish brandy is made 
from wine, and contemptuously that French brandy 
is not — old brandies for which a toper would sell 
his soul; new brandies like fusel-oil; brandies mellow 
and mild and rich. It is a drunkard's paradise. 

And why should not the drinker have his para- 
dise? The teetotallers have slapped their bosoms 
and vowed that liquor was the devil's own invention. 
(Note, by the way, that liquor is a noble word that 
should not be applied to those weak-kneed abomina- 
tions that insolently flaunt their lack of alcohol. 
Let them be called liquids or fluids or beverages, or 
what you will. Liquor is a word for heroes, for 
the British tar who has built up British glory — Im- 
perialism Is quite the fashion now.) And for a 
hundred years none has dared lift his voice in refuta- 
tion of these dyspeptic slanders. The toper did not 
care, he nursed his bottle and let the world say 
what it would; but the moderate drinker was 
abashed. Who will venture to say that a glass of 
beer gives savour to the humblest crust, and com- 
forts Corydon, lamenting the inconstancy of Phyllis? 
Who will come forward and strike an attitude and 
prove the benefits of the grape? (The attitude is 
essential, for without it you cannot hope to impress 
your fellow men.) Rise up in your might, ye lovers 
of hop and grape and rye — rise up and slay the 

[217] 



Andalusia 

Egyptians. Be honest and thank your stars for the 
cup that cheers. Bacchus was not a pot-bellied old 
sot, but a beautiful youth with vine-leaves in his 
hair, Bacchus the lover of flowers; and Ariadne was 
charming. 

The country about Jerez undulates in just such an 
easy comfortable fashion as you would expect. It 
is scenery of the gentlest and pleasantest type, 
sinuous; little hills rising with rounded lines and 
fertile valleys. The vines cover the whole land, 
creeping over the brown soil fantastically, black 
stumps, shrivelled and gnarled, tortured into un- 
couth shapes; they remind you of the creeping 
things in a naturalist's museum, of giant spiders and 
great dried centipedes and scorpions. But imagine 
the vineyards later, when the spring has stirred the 
earth with fecundity! The green shoots tenderly 
forth; at first it is all too delicate for a colour, it is 
but a mist of indescribable tenuity; and gradually the 
leaves burst out and trail along the ground with 
ever-increasing luxuriance; and then it is a rippling 
sea of passionate verdure. 

But I liked Jerez best towards evening, when the 
sun had set and the twilight glided through the 
tortuous alleys like a woman dressed in white. 
Then, as I walked in the silent streets, narrow and 
steep, with their cobble-paving, the white houses 
gained a new aspect. There seemed not a soul in 
[218] 



Jerez 
the world, and the loneliness was more intoxicating 
than all their wines; the shining sun was gone, and 
the sky lost its blue richness, it became so pale that 
you felt it like a face of death — and the houses 
looked like long rows of tombs. We walked through 
the deserted streets, I and the woman dressed in 
white, side by side silently; our footsteps made no 
sound upon the stones. And Jerez was wrapped in 
a ghostly shroud. Ah, the beautiful things I have 
seen which other men have not I 



[219] 



XXXVIII: Cadiz 

I admire the strenuous tourist who sets out in the 
morning with his well-thumbed Baedeker to exam- 
ine the curiosities of a foreign town, but I do not 
follow in his steps; his eagerness after knowledge, 
his devotion to duty, compel my respect, but excite 
me to no imitation. I prefer to wander in old 
streets at random without a guide-book, trusting 
that fortune will bring me across things worth see- 
ing; and if occasionally I miss some monument that 
is world-famous, more often I discover some little 
dainty piece of architecture, some scrap of decora- 
tion, that repays me for all else I lose. And in this 
fashion the less pretentious beauties of a town de- 
light me, which, if I sought under the guidance of 
the industrious German, would seem perhaps scarcely 
worth the trouble. Nor do I know that there is in 
Cadiz much to attract the traveller beyond the grace 
with which it lies along the blue sea and the un- 
studied charm of its gardens, streets, and market- 
place; the echo in the cathedral to which the gaping 
tripper listens with astonishment leaves me un- 
moved; and in the church of Santa Catalina, which 
contains the last work of Murillo, upon which he 
was engaged at his death, I am more interested in 
the tall stout priest, unctuous and astute, who shows 
[220] 



Cadiz 

me his treasure, than in the picture itself. I am 
relieved now and again to visit a place that has no 
obvious claims on my admiration; it throws me back 
on the peculiarities of the people, on the stray in- 
cidents of the street, on the contents of the shops. 

Cadiz is said to be the gayest town in Andalusia. 
Spaniards have always a certain gravity; they are 
not very talkative, and like the English, take their 
pleasures a little sadly. But here lightness of heart 
is thought to reign supreme, and the inhabitants have 
not even the apparent seriousness with which the 
Sevillan cloaks a somewhat vacant mind. They are 
great theatre-goers, and as dancers, of course, have 
been famous since the world began. But I doubt 
whether Cadiz deserves its reputation, for it always 
seems to me a little prim. The streets are well-kept 
and spacious, the houses, taller than is usual in Anda- 
lusia, have almost as cared-for an appearance as 
those in a prosperous suburb of London; and it is 
only quite occasionally, when you catch a glimpse 
of tawny rock and of white breakwater against the 
blue sea, that by a reminiscence of Naples you can 
persuade yourself it is as immortal as they say. 
For, not unlike the Syren City, Cadiz lies white and 
cool along the bay, with gardens at the water's edge; 
but it has not the magic colour of its rival, it is 
quieter, smaller, more restful; and on the whole 
lacks that agreeable air of wickedness which the 
Italian town possesses to perfection. It is impos- 
[221] 



Andalusia 

sible to be a day in Naples without discovering that 
it is the most depraved city in Europe; there is some- 
thing in the atmosphere which relaxes the moral 
fibre, and the churchwarden who keeps guard in 
the bosom of every Enghshman falls asleep, so that 
you feel capable of committing far more than the 
seven deadly sins. Of course, you don't, but still 
it is comfortable to have them within reach. 

I came across, while examining the wares of a 
vendor of antiquities, a contemporary narrative from 
the Spanish side of the attack made on Cadiz by Sir 
Francis Drake when he set out to singe the beard of 
Philip II. ; and this induced me afterwards to look 
into the English story. It is far from me to wish to 
inform the reader, but the account is not undivert- 
ing, and shows, besides, a frame of mind which the 
Anglo-Saxon has not ceased to cultivate. " But the 
Almighty God," says the historian, " knowing and 
seeing his (the Spanish king's) wicked intent to pun- 
ish, molest, and trouble His little flock, the children 
of Israel, hath raised up a faithful Moses for the 
defence of His chosen, and will not suffer His people 
utterly to fall into the hands of their enemies." 
Drake set sail from Plymouth with four of her 
Majesty's ships, two pinnaces, and some twenty 
merchantmen. A vessel was sent after, charging 
him not to show hostilities, but the messenger, ow- 
ing to contrary winds, could never come near the 
[222] 



Cadiz 

admiral, and vastly to the annoyance of the Virgin 
Queen, as she solemnly assured the ambassadors of 
foreign powers, had to sail home. Under the cir- 
cumstances it was, perhaps, hardly discreet of her 
to take so large a share of the booty. 

Faithful Moses arrived in Cadiz, spreading horrid 
consternation, and the Spanish pamphlet shows very 
vividly the confusion of the enemy. It appears that, 
had he boldly landed, he might have sacked the 
town, but he imagined the preparations much greater 
than they were. However, he was not idle. " The 
same night our general, having, by God's good 
favour and sufferance, opportunity to punish the 
enemy of God's true gospel and our daily adversary, 
and further willing to discharge his expected duty 
towards God, his peace and country, began to sink 
and fire divers of their ships." 

The English fleet burned thirty sail of great bur- 
den, and captured vast quantities of the bread, 
wheat, wine and oil which had been prepared for 
the descent upon England. Sir Francis Drake him- 
self remarks that " the sight of the terrible fires 
were to us very pleasant, and mitigated the burden 
of our continued travail, wherein we were busied for 
two nights and one day, in discharging, firing, and 
lading of provisions." 

It is a curious thing to see entirely deserted a 
place of entertainment, where great numbers of 
[223] 



Andalusia 

people are In the habit of assembling. A theatre 
by day, without a soul in it, gives me always a sen- 
sation of the ridiculous futility of things; and a 
public garden towards evening offers the same emo- 
tion. On the morrow I was starting for Africa; I 
watched the sunset from the quays of Cadiz, the 
vapours of the twilight rise and envelop the ships 
in greyness, and I walked by the alamadas that 
stretch along the bay till I came to the park. The 
light was rapidly failing and I found myself alone. 
It had quaint avenues of short palms, evidently not 
long planted, and between them rows of yellow 
iron chairs arranged with great neatness and pre- 
cision. It was there that on Sunday I had seen the 
populace disport itself, and it was full of life then, 
gay and insouciant. The fair ladies drove in their 
carriages, and the fine gentlemen, proud of their 
English clothes, lounged idly. The chairs were 
taken by all the lesser fry, by stout mothers, dragons 
attendant on dark-eyed girls, and their lovers in 
broad hats, in all the gala array of the flamenco. 
There was a joyous clamour of speech and laughter; 
the voices of Spanish women are harsh and unre- 
strained; the park sparkled with colour, and the sun 
caught the fluttering of countless fans. 

For those blithe people It seemed that there was 

no morrow: the present was there to be enjoyed, 

divine and various, and the world was full of beauty 

and of sunshine; merely to live was happiness 

[224] 



Cadiz 

enough; if there was pain or sorrow it served but to 
enhance the gladness. The hurrying hours for a 
while had ceased their journey. Life was a cup 
of red wine, and they were willing to drink its very 
dregs, a brimming cup in which there was no bitter- 
ness, but a joy more thrilling than the gods could give 
in all their paradise. 

But now I walked alone between the even rows of 
chairs. The little palms were so precise, with their 
careful fohage, that they did not look like real trees; 
the flower-beds were very stiff and neat, and now 
and then a pine stood out, erect and formal as if It 
were a cardboard tree from a Noah's Ark. The 
scene was so artificial that it brought to my mind the 
setting of a pantomime. I stopped, almost expect- 
ing a thousand ballet-girls to appear from the wings, 
scantily clad, and go through a measure to the play- 
ing of some sudden band, and retire and come for- 
ward till the stage was filled and a great tableau 
formed. 

But the day grew quite dim, and the vast stage 
remained empty. The painted scene became still 
more unreal, and presently the park was filled with 
the ghostly shapes of all the light-hearted people 
who had Hved their hour and exhibited their youth 
in the empty garden. I heard the whispered com- 
pliments, and the soft laughter of the ladies; there 
was a peculiar little snap as gaily they closed their 
fans. 

[225] 



XXXIX: El Genero Chico 

In the evening I wandered again along the quay, 
my thoughts part occupied with the novel things I 
expected from Morocco, part sorrowful because I 
must leave the scented land of Spain. I seemed 
never before to have enjoyed so intensely the ex- 
quisite softness of the air, and there was all about 
me a sense of spaciousness which gave a curious 
feeling of power. In the harbour, on the ships, the 
lights of the masts twinkled like the stars above; 
and looking over the stony parapet, I heard the 
waves lap against the granite like a long murmur 
of regret; I tried to pierce the darkness, straining 
my eyes to see some deeper obscurity which I might 
imagine to be the massive coasts of Africa. But at 
last I could bear the solitude no longer, and I dived 
into the labyrinth of streets. 

At first, in unfrequented ways, I passed people 
only one by one, some women walking rapidly with 
averted face, or a pair of chattering students; but as 
I came near the centre of the town the passers-by 
grew more frequent, and suddenly I found myself in 
the midst of a thronging, noisy crowd. I looked up 
and saw that I was opposite a theatre ; the people had 
[226] 



El Genero Chico 

just come from the second funcion. I had heard 
that the natives of Cadiz were eager theatre-goers, 
and was curious to see how they took this pleasure. 
I saw also that the next piece was Los Borrachos, 
a play of Seville life that I had often seen; and I 
felt that I could not spend my last evening better 
than in living again some of those scenes which 
pattered across my heart now like httle sorrowful 
feet. 

The theatre In Spain Is the only thing that has 
developed further than in the rest of Europe — in 
fact, It has nearly developed clean away. The Span- 
lards were the first to confess that dramatic art bored 
them to death; and their habits rendered impossible 
the long play which took an evening to produce. 
Eating late, they did not wish to go to the theatre 
till past nine; being somewhat frivolous, they could 
not sit for more than an hour without going outside 
and talking to their friends; and they were poor. 
To satisfy their needs the genero chico, or little style, 
sprang Into existence; and quickly every theatre in 
Spain was given over to the system of four houses a 
night. Each function Is different, and the stall costs 
little more than sixpence. 

We English are idealists; and on the stage espe- 
cially reality stinks In our nostrils. The poor are 
vulgar, and In our franker moments we confess our 
wish to have nothing to do with them. The middle 
[227] 



Andalusia 

classes are sordid; we have enough of them in real 
life, and no desire to observe their doings at the 
theatre, particularly when we wear our evening 
clothes. But when a dramatist presents duchesses 
to our admiring eyes, we feel at last in our element; 
we watch the acts of persons whom we would will- 
ingly meet at dinner, and our craving for the ideal is 
satisfied. 

But in Spain nobles are common and excite no 
overwhelming awe. The Spaniard, most democratic 
of Europeans, clamours for realism, and nothing 
pleases him more than a literal transcript of the life 
about him. The manners and customs of good 
society do not entertain him, and the genero chico 
concerns itself almost exclusively with the lower 
classes. The bull-fighter is, of course, one of the 
most useful figures; and round him are gathered the 
lovers of the ring, inn-keepers, cobblers and car- 
penters, policemen, workmen, flower-sellers, street, 
singers, cigarette girls, country maidens. The little 
pieces are innumerable, and together form a com- 
pend of low life in Spain; the best are full of gaiety 
and high spirits, with a delicate feeling for character, 
and often enough are touched by a breath of poetry. 
Songs and dances are introduced, and these come in 
the more naturally since the action generally takes 
place on a holiday. The result is a musical comedy 
in one act; but with nothing in it of the entertain- 
ment which is a joy to the British public: an Anda- 
[228] 



El Genero Chico 
lusian audience would never stand that representa- 
tion of an impossible and vulgar world in which the 
women are all trollops and the men, rips, nincom- 
poops and bounders; they would never suffer the 
coarse humour and the shoddy patriotism . 

Unfortunately, these one-act plays have destroyed 
the legitimate drama. Whereas Maria Guerrero, 
that charming actress, will have a run of twenty 
nights in a new play by Echegaray, a popular zar- 
zuela will be acted hundreds of times in every town 
in Spain. But none can regret that the Spaniards 
have evolved these very national little pieces, and 
little has been lost in the non-existence of an indefi- 
nite number of imitations from the French. The 
zarzuela, I should add, lasts about an hour, and for 
the most part Is divided into three scenes. 

Such a play as Los Borrachos is nothing less than 
a genre picture of Seville life. It reminds one of a 
painting by Teniers ; and I should like to give some 
idea of it, since it is really one of the best examples 
of the class, witty, varied, and vivacious. But an 
obstacle presents itself in the fact that I can find no 
vestige of a plot. The authors set out to character- 
ise the various lovers of the vine, (nowhere in Anda- 
lusia are the devotees of the yellow Manzanilla 
more numerous than in Seville,) and with telling 
strokes have drawn the good-natured tippler, the 
surly tippler, the rehgious tippler. To these they 
have added other types, which every Andalusian can 
[229] 



Andalusia 

recognise as old friends — the sharp-tongued harri- 
dan, the improviser of couplets with his ridiculous 
vanity, the flower-seller, and the 'prentice-boy of fif- 
teen, who, notwithstanding his tender years, is af- 
flicted with love for the dark-eyed heroine. The 
action takes place first in a street, then in a court- 
yard, lastly in a carpenter's shop. There are dainty 
love-scenes between Soledad, the distressed maiden, 
and Juanillo, the flower-seller; and one, very Span- 
ish, where the witty and precocious apprentice offers 
her his diminutive hand and heart. Numerous peo- 
ple come and go, the drunkards drink and quarrel 
and make peace ; the whole thing, if somewhat con- 
fused, is very life-like, and runs with admirable 
lightness and ease. It is true that the play has 
neither beginning nor end, but perhaps that only 
makes it seem the truer; and if the scenes have no 
obvious connection they are all amusing and charac- 
teristic. It is acted with extraordinary spirit. The 
players, indeed, are not acting, but living their ordi- 
nary lives, and it is pleasant to see the zest with 
which they throw themselves into the performance. 
When the hero presses the heroine in his arms, smiles 
and passionate glances pass between them, which 
suggest that even the love-making is not entirely 
make-believe. 

I wish I could translate the song which Juanillo 
sings when he passes his lady's window, bearing his 
basket of flowers: 

[230] 



El Genero Chico 

Carnations for pretty girls that are true, 
Musk-roses for pretty girls that are coy, 
Rosebuds as small as thy mouth, my dearest, 
And roses as fair as thy cheeks. 

I cannot, Indeed, resist the temptation of giving 
one verse In that Andaluslan dialect, from which all 
harsh consonants and unmusical sounds have been 
worn away — the most complete and perfect lan- 
guage in the world for lovers and the passion of 
love: 

Sal, morena, a tu ventana, 
'Mira las flores que traigo; 
S.al y di si son bastantes 
Pa arfombrita de tu cuarto. 
Que yo te quiero 
Y a ti te doy 
Tos los tesoros der mundo entero. 
To lo que vargo, to lo que soy. 



[231] 



XL: Adios 

And then the morrow was come. Getting up at 
five to catch my boat, I went down to the harbour; 
a grey mist hung over the sea, and the sun had 
barely risen, a pallid, yellow circle; the fishing-boats 
lolled on the smooth, dim water, and fishermen in 
little groups blew on their fingers. 

And from Cadiz I saw the shores of Spain sink 
into the sea; I saw my last of Andalusia. Who, 
when he leaves a place that he has loved, can help 
wondering when he will see it again? I asked the 
wind, and it sighed back the Spanish answer : '' Quien 
sahe? Who knows? " The traveller makes up his 
mind to return quickly, but all manner of things hap- 
pen, and one accident or another prevents him; time 
passes till the desire is lost, and when at last he 
comes back, himself has altered or changes have 
occurred in the old places and all seems different. 
He looks quite coldly at what had given an intense 
emotion, and though he may see new things, the 
others hardly move' him; it is not thus he imagined 
them in the years of waiting. And how can he tell 
what the future may have in store; perhaps, not- 
withstanding all his passionate desires, he will in- 
deed never return. 

[232] 



Adios 

Of course the Intention of this book is not to in- 
duce people to go to Spain: railway journeys are 
long and tedious, the trains crawl, and the hotels are 
bad. Experienced globe-trotters have told me that 
all mountains are very much alike, and that pic- 
tures, when you have seen a great many, offer no 
vast difference. It is much better to read books 
of travel than to travel oneself; he really enjoys 
foreign lands who never goes abroad; and the man 
who stays at home, preserving his illusions, has cer- 
tainly the best of it. How delightful is the antici- 
pation as he looks over time-tables and books of 
photographs, forming delightful images of future 
pleasure ! But the reality is full of disappointment, 
and the more famous the monument the bitterer the 
disillusion. Has any one seen St. Peter's without 
asking himself: Is that all? And the truest enjoy- 
ment arises from things that come unexpectedly, 
that one had never heard of. Then, living in a 
strange land, one loses all impression of its strange- 
ness; it is only afterwards, in England, that one 
realises the charm and longs to return; and a hun- 
dred pictures rise to fill the mind with delight. Why 
can one not be strong enough to leave it at that and 
never tempt the fates again? 

The wisest thing is to leave unvisited in every 

country some place that one wants very much to see. 

In Italy I have never been to Siena, and in Andalusia 

I have taken pains to avoid Malaga. The guide- 

[233] 



Andalusia 

books tell me there Is nothing whatever to see there ; 
and according to them it is merely a. prosperous sea- 
port with a good climate. But to me, who have 
never seen it, Malaga is something very different; it 
is the very cream of Andalusia, where every trait 
and characteristic is refined to perfect expression. 

I imagine Malaga to be the most smiling town on 
the seaboard, and it lies along the shore ten times 
more charmingly than Cadiz. The houses are white, 
whiter than in Jerez; the patios are beautiful with 
oranges and palm-trees, and the dark green of the 
luxuriant fohage contrasts with the snowy walls. 
In Malaga the sky is always blue and the sun shines, 
but the narrow Arab streets are cool and shady. 
The passionate odours of Andalusia float in the air, 
the perfume of a myriad cigarettes and the fresh 
scent of fruit and flowers. The blue sea lazily 
kisses the beach and fishing-boats bask on its bosom. 

In Malaga, for me, there are dark churches, with 
massive, tall pillars; the light falls softly through 
the* painted glass, regilding the golden woodwork, 
the angels and the saints and. the bishops In their 
mitres. The air is heavy with incense, and women 
In mantillas kneel in the half-light, praying silently. 
Now and then I come across an old house with a 
fragment of Moorish work, reminding me that here 
again the Moors have left their mark. 

And in Malaga, for me, the women are more 
lovely than in Seville ; for their dark eyes glitter mar- 
[234] 



Adios 

vellously, and their lips, so red and soft, are ever 
trembling with a half-formed smile. They are more 
graceful than the daffodils, their hands are lovers' 
sighs, and their voice is a caressing song. (What 
was your voice like, Rosarito? Alas! it is so long 
ago that I forget.) The men are tall and slender, 
with strong clear features and shining eyes, deep 
sunken in their sockets. 

In Malaga, for me, life is a holiday in which 
there are no dullards and no bores; all the world is 
strong and young and full of health, and there is 
nothing to remind one of horrible things. Malaga, 
I know, is the most delightful place in Andalusia. 
Oh, how refreshing it is to get away from sober 
fact, but what a fool I shoul'd be ever to go there I 

The steamer plods on against the wind slowly, 
and as the land sinks away, unsatisfied to leave the 
impressions hovering vaguely through my mind, I 
try to find the moral. The Englishman, ever some- 
what sententiously inclined, asks what a place can 
teach him. The churchwarden in his bosom gives 
no constant, enduring peace; and after all, though 
he may be often ridiculous, it is the churchwarden 
who has made good part of England's greatness. 

And most obviously Andalusia suggests that it 
might not be ill to take things a little more easily: 
we English look upon life so very seriously, so much 
without humour. Is it worth while to be quite so 



Andalusia 

strenuous? At the stations on the line between 
Jerez and Cadiz, I noticed again how calmly they 
took things; people lounged idly talking to one an- 
other; the officials of the railway smoked their ciga- 
rettes; no one was in a hurry, time was long, and 
whether the train arrived late or punctual could 
really matter much to no one. A beggar came to 
the window, a cigarette-end between his lips. 

'^ Cahallero! Alms for the love of God for a 
poor old man. God will repay you ! " 

He passed slowly down the train. It waited for 
no reason; the passengers stared idly at the loungers 
on the platform, and they stared idly back. No one 
moved except to roll himself a cigarette. The sky 
was blue and the air warm and comforting. Life 
seemed good enough, and above all things easy. 
There was no particular cause to trouble. What is 
the use of hurrying to pile up money when one can 
hve on so httle? What is the use of reading these 
endless books? Why not let things slide a little, 
and just take what comes our way? It is only for 
a Httle while, and then the great antique mother 
receives us once more in her bosom. And there are 
so many people in the world. Think again of all 
the countless hordes who have come and gone, and 
who will come and go; the immense sea of Time 
covers them, and what matters the life they led? 
What odds is it that they ever existed at all? Let 
us do our best to be happy; the earth is good and 
[236] 



Adios 

sweet-smelling, there is sunshine and colour and 
youth and loveliness; and afterwards — well, let us 
shrug our shoulders and not think of it. 

And then in bitter irony, contradicting my moral, 
a train came in with a number of Cuban soldiers. 
There were above fifty of them, and they had to 
change at the junction. They reached out to open 
the carriage doors and crawled down to the plat- 
form. Some of them seemed at death's door; they 
could not walk, and chairs were brought that they 
might be carried; others leaned heavily on their com- 
panions. And they were dishevelled, with stubbly 
beards. But what struck me most was the deathly 
colour; for their faces were almost green, while 
round their sunken eyes were great white rings, and 
the white was ghastly, corpse-like. They trooped 
along in a dazed and listless fashion, wasted with 
fever, and now and then one stopped, shaken with 
a racking cough ; he leaned against the wall, and put 
his hand to his heart as if the pain were unendurable. 
It was a pitiful sight. They were stunted and under- 
sized; they ceased to develop when they went to the 
cruel island, and they were puny creatures with 
hollow chests and thin powerless limbs; often, 
strangely enough, their faces had remained quite 
boyish. They were twenty or twenty-two, and they 
looked sixteen. And then, by the sight of those 
boys who had never known youth with its joyful 
flowers, doomed to a hopeless life, I was forced 
[237] 



Andalusia 

against my will to another moral. Perhaps some 
would recover, but the majority must drag on with 
ruined health, fever-stricken, dying one by one, fall- 
ing like the unripe fruit of a rotten tree. They 
had no chance, poor wretches ! They would return 
to their miserable homes; they could not work, and 
their people were too poor to keep them — so they 
must starve. Their lives were even shorter than 
those of the rest, and what pleasure had they had? 

And that is the result of the Spanish insouciance 
— death and corruption, loss of power and land and 
honour, the ruin of countless lives, and absolute 
decay. It is rather a bitter irony, isn't it? And 
now all they have left is their sunshine and the 
equanimity which nothing can disturb. 



THE END 



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